Haze and the Hammer of Darkness (62 page)

“Not exactly friendly.”

“Neither is snooping.”

She squeezes his hand. “I wasn't snooping. You were broadcasting, and there is a difference.”

He lets the outer barriers drop. What difference will it make?

The flitter looks the same, even after, what—fifty standard years? Just like Emily.

“And just like you, Martel. The world changes around you, and yet you really don't notice it. You decry the gods, and the number of demigods that Apollo and the Smoke Bull are raising, but you're the most visible god of all.”

He thinks about protesting the charge, but lets it drop.

“That's part of what makes you fascinating. Why do you think the royalties on your shows are so high? Not that they're not good, you understand, but how many gods in the universe are faxers?

“And why do you think Apollo is so ambivalent about you? At the same time you oppose him, you're supporting the whole idea of the gods by your own actions.”

She smiles and gestures toward the open door of the flitter.

He returns the gesture. “After you, lovely lady.”

She inclines her head, hesitates, then steps inside.

Martel slides in next to her.

The door swings shut behind him, and the flitter, with neither at the controls, lifts.

“Why is there no one who will enter the CastCenter while you're there? Don't tell me it's because of a generation-old edict of a defunct center chief. That provides the excuse. Working with, or loving, gods is dangerous, Martel. You know it, and so do they.”

“So why am I with you?”

“Because … but that's beside the point. I won't answer that question until you're willing to. Until you're honest with yourself, totally honest, no one else can afford to be. In the meantime, I will take what we can both afford.”

Her left hand touches his right, squeezes it, and her right reaches for his left shoulder, draws him toward her, across the golden upholstery.

Martel holds back momentarily, then lets himself slide into her, lips meeting, his arms encircling her.

The flitter shivers, shaking them. Martel lets his lips break free.

“I can't seem to concentrate on two things at once.” As she struggles from half under him her laugh chimes with the bells he has heard before only in thought. Or has he?

He dredges his memories for … what?… as she concentrates on her mental control of the aircraft.

Presently he recognizes the villa. While the surrounding trees may be taller, little else has changed.

“It shouldn't have. Except for caretaking, I haven't been here since you were last here.”

The words ring true, and that truth disturbs him. Why?

How could a goddess be interested in a mere mortal? One who shies away from even considering a trip toward godhood?

Emily frowns, but says nothing as the flitter descends toward touchdown.

“This time, the dinner choice, and it will be dinner, is mine. I'm sure you'll enjoy it.”

As she finishes the last word, as if on cue the flitter settles onto the landing stage, and the door swings open.

No footman, no liveried functionary, waits as she alights. Yet the white marble columns hold the aura of expectation, as if an Imperial ball is about to occur.

Through the atrium, where not a speck of dust clings to the polished floors or to the classical columns, and through the center courtyard where the light-fountain plays in the circular basin surrounded by white flowers, she leads Martel. Only the swish of her sandals, the pad of his boots, and the splash of the fountain break the silence.

On the open portico is a table, linened, in gold and crystal and set for two.

He bows to her.

She acknowledges the bow with a faint smile. “If you will be seated…”

“But how can I be seated and seat you, as is proper?”

“You can't. I intend to serve you, and serve you I will.”

He sits, again disturbed, unable to put his finger on the reasons for his unease.

Were Emily out to destroy him, she would not have proceeded so. His reasoning is flawed, he knows, but true all the same. Emily does not intend him harm. Far from it. Not tonight.

First is the salad, of greens sprinkled with crushed nuts. The greens are the end shoots from the yanar tree, of which there are only a handful growing at the mist line, so it is said, on less than a dozen peaks of Aurore.

The nut he does not recognize, though it brings out every spice-mint nuance of the yanar tips.

“A local variety of an old Home nut.”

Martel nods. He can expect no less. Still … something about the dinner nags at him.

“Why did you invite me to dinner?”

“Always direct, dear Martel.” She laughs, and the sound warms him. He fights the sensation. “But if I told you, it would destroy the effect.”

“And you're as evasive as ever.”

“There's an old saying, ‘Ask me no questions, and I'll tell you no lies.'”

Martel studies her, realizes that her gown is cut lower than he remembers, that she wears nothing beneath.

Before he can speculate further, she is up.

“The main course.” She disappears, to return moments later with two gossamer-thin plates, one of which she places before Martel.

The porcelain catches Mattel's attention even more than the golden fish that is reputed to taste more delicate than the Emperor's cultured game trout. The porcelain is A'Mingtera, of which no complete set is known to exist.

Beside the golden fish is a thin slice of something in a light brown sauce, which Martel samples. Slightly bitter, but with a bubbling tang.

“Try the fish first.”

He does, and understands the use of the thin brown mushroom, which amplifies the delicacy and sensation of the golden fish.

Even so far, goddess or not, the meal is extreme, and carries a meaning beyond seduction, though that will come, he knows, and as he knows he wants her.

Desirable as she is, sitting across from her … Martel blocks the thought before it surfaces.

“You're upset?”

“Confused.”

She finishes a last bite and wipes her lips with the silken napkin.

“Confused about you, about me,” he goes on. “Any god on Aurore would be flattered by all this, all that you could offer. Why me?”

From the glint in her eyes he realizes he has not been the only one.

“No,” she confirms. “What choice do I have when you turn away from me and from what you are?” Her voice is soft, with the touch of bells in it, and totally at odds with the hint of anger he has seen buried within her.

“Let's pretend I don't know anything about you, which I don't,” says Martel, in an effort to retrack the conversation. “Where did you grow up and when did you discover—”

“That I was what I was? At least, you didn't ask how old I am.” She pauses. “Let's just say I grew up very young long enough ago for me to be uncertain about the details.”

She takes a sip of the wine, neither white nor rosé, but some of both and better than the best of either.

Martel lifts his glass to her, sips silently.

How little we know.

How little we need to know
comes her answering thought.

The portico is off the bedroom Martel has been in once before.

He slips to his feet and she to hers, and they move around the linen and gold and crystal, and the white fire from her and the black from him touch and join. And join. And join.

A black shadow, more like smoke, in the upper branches of the nearby bristlepine thins and fades.

A yellow eagle hawk in the sky above circles, circles, and is gone.

This time, Martel wakes first, or Emily has let him wake first. He looks over 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 that, 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

Martel's long strides carry him up the coastal highway. The dorles chitter from the quinces and from the zebrun trees that line the empty highway.

Though he cannot hear it yet, he knows an electrobike approaches from the south, purring behind him toward the common 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 omnipresent golden haze of the field, and the faint scent of trilia is carried from the hills on the light breeze.

Martel frowns. His stride breaks momentarily.

The youngsters are waiting for him. From his present distance 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. Besides, 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 shortest, 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 …

Martel looks at the others.

The five, three adolescent boys and two girls, fidget, wanting to move close enough to hear his answer, but wanting to back off at the same time.

Martel 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 listen? 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 … all the same …

Martel lets his eyes flick back over the six again. No mental sign of who, or which god, has put them up to their question.

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 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 toward 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, glittering 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'.