Chapter 23
It felt as if she were walking on shattered glass. The Melandan spellforms crackled and shifted under her feet. But that was all they did.
They may be essenmorgh, but they recognize a Kiasidira. They cannot attack without risking their own destruction. Simon hesitated in a cross corridor, ran his fingers down a bulkhead. Small flashes of light exploded at his touch. This way.
The complexity of the wardings suddenly increased. Gillie knew, even before she saw the intricately carved door, that they'd found Blass's quarters.
She took a moment to study the door's carvings. What is it?
Besides ugly? Simon gestured toward a knot of forms in the center of the door. People feeding upon each other possibly. Or more likely, souls devouring souls. He might well have a closet full of whips. Perhaps we should introduce him to the feisty Miselle Hebbs.
Even Johnni doesn't deserve this. Gillie splayed her hands toward the door and found the threads she needed. She touched them in sequence, negating them, diverting their energies. When she felt their united resonance falter, she quickly tore them apart. She sucked in a sharp breath then waited for a second, for an unseen level of wardings to appear.
None did. Yet she didn't believe for a moment entry into the Blass's cabin would be so easy, or at least, so obviously easy. She crossed the sorcerer's threshold, her sword in her hand.
She sensed the mogra seconds before it rose from the carpeted decking, slime dripping from its scale-covered hide. Instinctively she backed up, her heart pounding. There was a second flash of light on her left. Simon, sword out, by her side.
Interesting roommate, he said. She could hear the tension in his voice. It had been awhile since they'd faced one of these. That hadn't been a pleasant experience either. Especially for the mogra.
Let's hope it's the only one. Gillie grasped her sword with both hands, let the crystal's power lace through her.
As if in response, the mogra's yellow eyes pulsed with an unholy light. Clawed fingers flexed on the end of two overly long forearms. Three horns crested its slick head. But it didn't charge, didn't attack. It was reading their power, just as she and Simon analyzed its. It had to know it was weaker.
Simon whispered in Raheiran, laying a warding shield behind them. If Blass had any more pets, they'd know the moment the shields were breached.
The demon hissed out a long foul breath as Raheiran magicks prickled against its skin. Gillie's stomach spasmed at the stench. She concentrated on the demon's spellforms. Ugly, brutal things, but nothing beyond her capabilities.
Still, one always treated a mogra with respect. And caution. Be gone, ancient one.
The mogra's form wavered, then solidified. Gillie knew it should have vanished at her command. Therefore, it drew its energy from something else in the cabin. She should have expected that.
Simon thrust the tip of his sword at the creature. It backed up one step, then another. But its yellow gaze was fixed on Gillie.
We could kill it, Gillie suggested, but Blass may sense that, come back to the ship.
You know one does not kill demons, My Lady. One only returns them to the nearest available Hell.
That was my original intention. It didn't cooperate. Gillie looked past the demon, past the solid forms of a long couch, plush chairs and elegant carved tables that existed on a different plane of energy at the moment.
To her Raheiran sight, Blass's cabin was a cacophony of spellformed colors, most of which were putrid, clashing. She sought something very dark, very deep, something feeding power to the mogra. Her senses brushed against its ragged edges.
She jerked back, startled, more startled than by the appearance of the mogra. That had been in keeping with the little she knew of Blass. This wasn't.
A mage cabinet, ancient and powerful. Like her sword, it was constructed to contain and amplify spells. But, unlike her sword, it could also contain physical objects, imbue them temporarily with spellforms. Many a ruler in ancient times had died from drinking from a cursefilled chalice created in such a cabinet.
Raheirans never built them, never used them. Such a close concentration of powers made the cabinets unstable, their creations malfunctioning with horrifying results. To Gillie, they'd existed only in legend. Nightmares.
Until now.
For the first time a chill ran up her spine. She entertained the disheartening thought that she might have underestimated Carrick Blass.
Simon. She directed his attention to the innocent-looking object along the wall. She felt his disbelief, then his horror and anger. Can you keep that mogra distracted long enough for me to take a look at that?
The question is not can I, but should I. I don't like the thought of you tampering with that. It may trigger an alarm.
We need answers, a name. It will know.
It can also drain your life essence.
She knew that. If it locked onto her, she might not be able to get out, even with Simon's help. And destroying the cabinet would render her essenmorgh.
She held her hands out. The cabinet's spellforms chafed against her palms. We don't have time to waste in arguing. Keep the mogra away from here.
Simon thrust his sword at the demon again. It backed up, hissing. He arced a second swing, more aggressively. The demon scurried to the left.
Gillie took advantage of the open space, sidestepped quickly toward the small cabinet along the inner wall. She felt the movement of Simon's sword through the energy fields behind her as she carefully touched the prickly spellforms guarding the cabinet. These were dark, convoluted.
The pattern must be thousands of years old. She now knew where those two small Fav ships that attacked Cirrus had received their cloaking magicks. She sent an image to Simon.
Lady Gillaine... A rush of apprehension, bordering on fear underscored his words.
We've come this far. She found a lose spellthread. It burned against her fingertips. She gritted her teeth, pulled on it, pain lacing up her arm. She ignored it, read its form. Found another thread. This one, too, writhed, burned.
Her heart pounded as she concentrated, plucked thread after thread. How much time do we have?
Eleven minutes.
Gillie sent back an affirmative mental nod. A blaze of energy rushed behind her. She heard a corresponding low whine of pain from the demon. Careful, Simon. We don't want to alert his keeper.
He's most interested in you suddenly.
Then I must be close. Three more threads. She chose the one on the right, pulled. There! A pulse of black and yellow as the last block of spellforms writhed, curled, retreated. Got it!
Gillaine, be careful.
She held her breath, feeling foolish for doing so. She was out of her physical self, had no need for breathing. But it was an automatic response, helped her focus her mind. Helped her draw the energy from the sword now grasped in both hands, send it like a wave, rolling before her.
The doors of the cabinet bowed and swelled. A liquid that looked like sickly green fire undulated over the surface.
She waited. To do more now would be dangerous.
Slowly, the doors dissolved, in the space of six, ten heartbeats. It felt like forever. Blass's ship's wardings pulsed faintly but consistently on the edges of her senses. The wardings had begun to rebuild. Time was running out.
She let out the breath she was illogically holding and forced herself to stand quietly, listening. The quick slash of Simon's sword sang through the ether. She could hear the mogra's wheezing hiss. And distantly, beyond all that, Mack's voice.
Something tightened around her heart. How would he view what she was doing, what she was? How could she truly, ever explain it?
She pushed that aside, drew her mind back to the mage's cabinet. Spellforms lay broken, withered. She touched the flat of her sword against her forehead, closed her eyes, whispered a very deep, very potent spell. The air suddenly felt cloyingly thick around her. It was only then she felt safe enough to make her request. No. She was the Kiasidira. To make her demand.
Name thyself.
The cabinet pulsed, fought against her power. She focused her mind, laced her spell with more wardings. Her throat felt dry. It had been a long time since she'd been so challenged. The cabinet was ancient, very ancient. And very strong.
She felt it shudder, a cold wave coursing through her. She drew a short breath as its sharp edge laced her essence, held on. Suddenly, the intense cold was gone. There was only an emptiness. A small, shrill voice gasped out a name: Carrickal Grel Tel'ard Blass.
Grel Tel'ard. He was of the Grel Tel'ardan mage lineage. As she was of the Ciran Rothallan. She had it. Blass's magename.
We have him, My Lady. She felt Simon's almost fierce pride at her work. We have him.
She glanced over her shoulder. Simon had the mogra pinned in the corner. The demon crouched on all fours, whimpering. Before this is all over, we should return, destroy this cabinet. It held too much power to be left untouched. She wondered if Blass even knew what he had. It was far stronger than anything else on his ship.
Its destruction, should she and Simon decide to change that, would have to be done carefully. It might well be set to send an alarm to the remaining Melandan mages.
Simon sprang back, reached for her. Now!
Their hands clasped. The demon howled. They raced over broken-glass spellforms, through a rapidly closing warding wall and embraced the clean energy inside Cirrus One, exhausted and slightly triumphant.
They were in the executive bay waiting area, empty now of Rigo, Blass and Halbert's entourage. A maintenance droid whirred inches from their boots, seeing and sensing nothing.
A wave of lightheadedness washed over Gillie. Simon's arm went immediately around her waist. I have to get you back.
I'm okay. We have time-
Very little. He pulled her tightly against him.
The corridor around her spun and she distantly heard the raucous calls of the parrots. Then she was back in her ready room. The image of her physical self sat in quiet meditation in the center of the magecircle.
The curtain parted as she stood before it. At the last moment, she released Simon's hand, stepped through.
* * *
"It's perfect." Prime Hostess Honora Syrella Trelmont turned in a slow circle in the middle of the yet-to-be dedicated Kiasidiran Shrine of Communion. The lights suspended over the round center podium caught the silver threads in her diaphanous tunic and pants and glistened up and down her form. The large rectangular crystal pendant hanging from a thick silver neck chain glinted as she moved. A crescent moon and lightning image was carved on its surface.
Mack thought of Gillie, turning in a similar circle, the first time he'd taken her to his quarters. Honora Trelmont was nothing like Gillie.
The Prime Hostess was in her early forties, of medium height and with a build that could only be described as sensual. She had a mass of deep red hair, arranged in the latest haphazard style, that was anything but subdued. Flamboyant, Mack decided. He'd seen her many times on newsvids, an attractive woman on the arm of her much older husband, but this was the first time he'd met her in person.
Definitely flamboyant. With a face that could be considerably childishly sweet if it weren't for the perpetual pout on her mouth.
A pout, Mack had the feeling, that was practiced.
She turned that pout on Carrick Blass. "Don't you think it's perfect, Rick?"
"It will be." Blass stepped away from Rigo and Halbert and took Honora by the elbow. He led her to the first row of seats encircling the podium.
She looked up at him in blatant admiration. "What does it need? I'll have Admiral Makarian handle it." Her gaze flickered to where Mack, Rand and Tobias stood a few feet away at the foot of an aisle.
Behind them, twenty Cirrus and Fleet security officers waited, watching, at the top of the bowl shaped shrine. Not only for anyone attempting to enter the large room but watching Blass, on Mack's instructions. Though the Prime Hostess didn't know that.
Mack hoped Blass didn't as well. His experience with mages was obviously limited. What the Tridivinians called magefathers, Mack had begun to realize, were simply theologians. Not mages at all. Not like Blass. And not like-
He pushed her name from his mind. He didn't know if Blass were telepathic. He couldn't take that chance. He focused on the Prime Hostess.
Blass stood before her, arms folded across his chest. "You've forgotten what we talked about earlier. There's still one more item."
Mack tamped down his slight surprise. He didn't know what else was needed. The shrine's opening ceremonies were due to start in three hours. Rigo had been granted the use of an auxiliary bay adjacent to the shrine in an uncontrolled capacity, as much as it had rankled Mack to do so. All other arrangements had been handled by Rand, Hebbs and Tobias. To Rigo's satisfaction, he'd been told.
The Vedri, the Gallant and the Worthy were on silent red alert. And the three defense squadrons housed on Cirrus on standby. But only Mack's people knew that.
What now? Was this something Blass wanted to stroke his ego? Or was this a different agenda? One dictated by the Fav'lhir.
Mack wouldn't know until Blass made some kind of move. That was what he and Gillie had decided, what he and Rand were waiting for.
It was a waiting game, a dangerous one. He hated them. But the only proof they had against Carrick Blass was Gillie's word. Nothing solid he could present to HQ. And to accuse a man of Blass's stature and influence without solid proof was suicidal. As dangerous as waiting was-they had to give Blass enough room to make a move.
Mack wondered if this "one more thing" to be handled was that move.
Blass flicked one finger. Rigo touched Halbert's arm and ambled toward Blass, eyebrows slightly raised in question.
The Prime Hostess seemed to remember what Blass wanted her to say. She raised her chin slightly, turned to Mack. "We decided that it would be a fitting gesture on Cirrus's part if the week following the opening of the shrine is declared the official Week of Communion."
Mack knew an order, even an innocuous one, when he heard it. He realized he was vaguely disappointed it was something so mundane. He expected more out of a Melandan mage. "I'm sure some kind of proclamation could be issued. Have Magefather Rigo," he said, motioning to the man stepping up beside Blass, "draw something up. I'll ask Stationmaster Hebbs to sign it as well."
"Good." She glanced up at Blass. "And as part of that, I'm sure you'll agree that the entire station should permit uncontrolled access for all bays, for that entire week."
Rand, next to Mack, sucked in a short quick breath. It was not such an innocuous request after all. If permitted, it could be fatal.
"With all due respect, Prime Hostess," Mack said quickly before Donni Rand offered something a bit more blunt and gave away that they'd been expecting something like this, "that would create an enormous breach of security. That's simply not possible."
"Then make it possible." The Prime Hostess's smile was cold.
Mack returned it with a thin smile of his own to hide his mounting anger. Clearly Blass was using the Prime Hostess's position for his own ends. "CQPA and Fleet share authority for this station. Stationmaster Hebbs and I would need direct orders from our respective HQs to do that. I doubt they'd give an order of that kind."
"There are a number of pirate gangs out there who might take that as an invitation to loot this station." Rand's tone was polite but firm. "Your suggestion is highly inadvisable. Ma'am."
The Prime Hostess drew herself to her feet. "Would you find this suggestion so inadvisable, Commander, if I were to tell you it came from Lady Kiasidira herself?"
"I would find it unusual," Tobias said.
Mack slanted a quick glance at Tobias. The lieutenant's input was unexpected. But the Prime Hostess's inclusion of the Lady was not. He'd agreed with Gillie that Rigo and Blass were using the Khalaran's fascination with the Kiasidira as a cover for their objectives regarding Cirrus. Objectives that included uncontrolled access, now not for just one bay but the whole station.
If the Fav'lhir were planning an invasion, there couldn't be a simpler method. The thought chilled him, and angered him even more. Not his station. Not while he was still in command.
The Prime Hostess was equally displeased by Tobias's comment. "Are you something of an authority on the Lady, Lieutenant?" There was a note of derision on her voice.
"I'm a devoted student of hers," Tobias said.
"As is Prime Hostess Honora." Blass laid his hand on the Prime Hostess's arm, a knowing smile forming on his lips. Suddenly, he stiffened and frowned, his eyes narrowing.
The Prime Hostess caught the change in his expression. "Rick?"
Rigo also looked concerned, but said nothing.
Blass's features darkened. Something cold clutched Mack's heart. Gillie. He didn't know how he knew it, but Gillie was up to something. Or had already done something.
"Just an annoying thought." Blass shot a questioning glance at Tobias.
Telepath. That possibility existed. For the second time, Mack tried to cordon off his mind and block his thoughts.
The Prime Hostess touched the crystal pendant around her neck. "The Lady has imparted to Magefather Rigo that it is her desire to welcome all people to her shrine. You cannot deny her request, Admiral."
Mack glanced at Rigo, then back at the Prime Hostess. "I'm sorry, but I have to."
"The decision isn't yours to make." Rigo locked his hands behind his back, rocked on his heels. His long cleric's robe pulled tightly over his paunchy form. "The Prime Hostess has relayed a message to the chancellor. We expect an answer, a positive answer, from him shortly."
Mack had noticed Blass seemed distracted. The man's full attention had not been on the conversation. But the mention of the chancellor drew him back in. "Handle this," Blass said to Rigo, with an abrupt motion of his hand. "I have something else to attend to right now."
The Prime Hostess reached tentatively for his arm, but Blass jerked away and strode toward the wide doors for the corridor.
Gillie. Gods, Gillie. Whatever you're doing stop it. Get out of there. He could see her small dust-smudged face peering up at him from under the temple bench, impish glint in her eyes.
Then that image faded and he remembered another expression on Gillie's face. One of hard determination that echoed a presence of command.
Not for the first time, he wondered which was the real Gillie Davré.
He caught the slight movement of Rand's fingers to her watchband, activating a signal. Two of her best would shadow Blass. Mack fought the urge to be part of their team. Not to follow the mage but to unmask him. Confront him. Keep Blass away from Gillie, at all costs.
But now was not the time for that. Rigo had said they were waiting from a communication from the chancellor. One that could create as dire a problem for Cirrus One from without as a Melandan mage could create from within.
Mack was sure the Lady had some succinct guideline about the lesser of two evils. He just couldn't think of it right now.
He acknowledged Rigo's statement with a slight nod. "I'm sure the chancellor isn't about to put this station and all its inhabitants at risk."
"We've been at this crossroad before, if you remember. Over the bay that is now declared a part of this shrine. That, too, was the expressed wish of the Lady." Rigo's small eyes glinted. "And it is now a fact."
"Do not underestimate the magefather's power, or mine," the Prime Hostess said.
Not theirs, though the Prime Hostess did have considerable influence. But Blass's. A Melandan mage. An unknown entity in Mack's experience. But not, he knew, in Gillie's.
He suddenly knew what had to be done. Gillie had to talk to his team. She'd asked for anonymity but with this new request, the situation had escalated. He needed to know if she could find out what Blass was planning, and just how far the mage could go to make those plans a reality.
"I have some things to take care of before the opening ceremonies, as I'm sure you do. Prime Hostess. Magefather." He turned to Rand. "Assign three of your best people to work with Senator Halbert's security for the Prime Hostess. Then meet me in the conference room in fifteen minutes."
Rigo didn't want to be so summarily dismissed. "Mark my words, Admiral," he called out as Mack stepped away. "Lady Kiasidira will have the final say in this matter."
Mack shot a glance over his shoulder but Tobias answered first. "I have no doubt of that, Magefather. No doubt at all."