An Abyss of Light (The Light Trilogy) (33 page)

“Defensive action?”

“We will fight back.”

“I don’t—”

“I’ve refrained so far, assuming the riots a temporary expression of grief, but if it appears they’ve become a pattern of terrorism, you’ll leave me no choice.”

Sarah stood numbly, picturing the devastation of beam cannon fire to the small Gamant villages strewn over the lush surface of the planet. “Colonel Silbersay … did the government assassinate my father?”

He blinked, startled. “I know the rioters are convinced we did, but I assure you, we had nothing to do with it. Your father was a known rabble-rouser, but had
we
wanted him out of the way, we’d have accomplished it years ago by covert means. Public murders are rarely advantageous.”

Sarah’s eyes pinned him, searching. Was it truth? Or a clever lie? His face remained stony, black brow lowering over his nose.

“Miss Calas,” he continued, “we’ve studied Gamant personality characteristics in depth. Your people, if you’ll excuse the term, are ‘barbarians.’ We know that you react to perceived injustices by violent, irrational behavior. We’d just as soon avoid another Gamant Revolt. And surely murdering your patriarch would rouse such a response.”

“Yet you continue to coerce Gamant planets into adopting Magisterial policy by bribing trading partners away, embargoing recalcitrant communities, attacking—”

“That,” Silbersay said and nodded politely, “is a matter of political strategy and not my jurisdiction.”

“Yes, we’ve noticed it becomes increasingly difficult to find someone whose jurisdiction it is.”

He gave her a sharp look as she slammed a fist against the button to open the door. When it snicked back, she left and walked briskly down the long white hall, heart thudding dully in her chest.

The riots wouldn’t stop and she could do nothing about it. Oh, she’d send word, relaying the Magistrates’ threat, but that would only
convince
the guerrillas the government had killed her father. The damned martinets understood nothing of Gamant culture. The “Leader” was merely a preserver of culture, an intermediary between groups, an adviser on social adaptations, not a king or president. She, and her father before her, governed by virtue of the respect their people granted them, not by any absolute authority resulting from their title.

And she, as a new Leader, hadn’t yet gained the respect necessary to quell the riots. Oh, some of her father’s influence shrouded her, so some villagers would listen, but for how long? And how far could she push it?

“Papa,” she murmured forlornly. “How did you stand those first few years?”

But deep in her heart she knew. Her father had opposed every government overture, had organized and led battles when the Magistrates tried to ease their way into a planet’s social structure without the consent of the people. And he’d done it well, so well the people practically worshiped him as a god.

A soft smile came to her tense face as she remembered Zadok Calas, the thin little man with the bulbous nose and twinkling eyes. A god. Her father. And her heart ached so terribly she could barely stand it.

She ran the rest of the way down the hall.

CHAPTER 19

Jeremiel weaved through the maze of ruby red caves, glancing repeatedly at the map Rathanial had given him. He turned right, then a short while later, stepped left down a descending staircase. At the bottom, he veered right at the split in the corridor. Blocked passageways and dead ends often met him when he took a wrong turn. At other times, a chaos of makeshift wooden steps thrust up like jagged teeth from massive holes knocked into the floor. Had they closed up so much of their underground world? Why?

From somewhere behind him came faint stirrings of sound and, turning, he heard the deep melodious voices of monks chanting their evening prayers. Their song twined like smoke through the underground passageways. He’d always found something warm and soothing in religious music.

Lifting his lamp higher, he studied the map again. “I’ve got to be close,” he murmured in frustration. His eyes darted over the next series of openings. “Okay,” he sighed, “left at the second chamber.”

Striding forward, he entered the first chamber, absently noting the sacred symbols of a dozen generations that etched the walls, then stepped into the next chamber. A brown curtain hung over an entry ahead of him. The golden halo penetrating around the curtain threw streaks of light across the red stone walls.

“Rachel?”

From inside, a patter of feet sounded. “Just a minute. I’m coming.”

When she drew back the curtain, his eyes widened. He hadn’t seen her in two days, not since the morning they’d arrived filthy and frightened to Rathanial’s cool welcome. Oh, he’d known that beneath that mat of stringy hair and the tattered robe a beautiful woman lurked, but this was far more than he’d expected. She stood before him dressed in an ivory robe that clung to every curve of her body. Her hair draped in lustrous raven waves to her waist. Though her heart-shaped face with the full lips, enormous black eyes and perfect nose seemed a little gaunt, the overall impact was stunning. His gaze unconsciously lingered on the swell of her breasts.

“You’re … looking better,” he said admiringly.

She lifted a brow. “Did you plan on coming in, or do you want to stand out there and gawk some more.”

“I can gawk just as well inside,” he decided and ducked beneath the curtain. Her sleeping cave was large in comparison to his own. Stretching approximately twenty by forty feet, the ceiling loomed a good forty feet over his head. But it still had the same stark accoutrements. Two woven grass sleeping pads lay on the far side, one supporting a softly snoring Sybil beneath a mound of brown and green blankets. On the opposite side, a small table and four chairs nestled. A tiny fireplace and a stack of wood graced the middle of the back wall. How, he wondered, did the Desert Fathers manage to hide all traces of smoke ventilation from these caves? Some sophisticated sort of filtering system must be present.

“It took me a half hour to find this place,” he said disbelievingly. “Do you think Rathanial is trying to keep us apart?”

“I think he’s trying to keep Sybil and me separate from his chaste monks. We incite ‘unclean thoughts,’ he said.”

“Urn … yes.”

Her eyes narrowed.

“How are you?”

She cocked her head curiously as though thinking the question a trite bit of subterfuge. Then she nodded abruptly. “Ah, I’d forgotten you’re responsible for me. I’m fine, and to what do I owe this visit?”

“You’re rested?”

“Mostly. What’s—”

“They’ve been feeding you well?”

“If I say no, will you give the chef a good thrashing?”

A teasing note entered her voice. He smiled. She felt better, obviously. “Probably.”

“Now what brings you here?”

“Are you always in such a blasted hurry? I thought maybe we’d just talk for a few minutes.”

She heaved an irritated sigh and folded her arms tightly across her breast. “I
am
always in a hurry when I suspect my life and that of my daughter might still hang in the balance somewhere. Let’s compromise, I’ll ‘just talk’ if you’ll finish the sentence. A few minutes,
before …?”

“Before,” he breathed in annoyance, “we have to meet with Rathanial to discuss his plan for overthrowing the Mashiah.”

Her eyes widened, face slackening. “He works fast.”

“Actually, he’s been working out the details for months, watching Tartarus, keeping track of his aides’ movements.”

She nodded quickly, swallowing a lump in her throat. Turning away from him, she paced before the fireplace, ivory robe reflecting the sherry-colored light. Her smooth olive brow furrowed with thought. From the haunted look, he strongly suspected she was making a few tactical decisions herself.

“I’ve already told you,” he said tartly, “I don’t expect you to participate.”

“I didn’t ask you to repeat it.”

“No, but I thought it might make you feel better.”

“It doesn’t.”

He shifted uncomfortably. “All right.”

“It’s just that I … I don’t …”

He waited for her to complete the sentence. When she only clenched a fist and glared at the floor, he offered, “I don’t blame you for being frightened.”

“It’s not that!” she protested. “It’s not that at all.”

He lifted his chin, studying her. She wasn’t lying. Something else motivated her anxiety. He sensed a bitterness in her, a sense of failure and a hurt so deep she could barely keep its visible impact below the surface. Her husband?

“Look,” he said gently, spreading his arms. “I know what it’s like to lose someone you love to the war effort. You need time to heal. I understand that. And I’m sure Rathanial does, too. Please, don’t worry.”

“You lost someone?” Her voice carried the strained frailness of twigs burdened by heavy snow.

That tender place inside him, the chasm left by Syene, ached. “A lover. We’d been together for three years.”

“How long ago?”

“Two months. A battle in the Akiba system.”

Their gazes held, his guarded and hurt, hers suddenly stripped of the stern aura. Her gaze darted to Sybil, then, absently, to the crackling fire. After a brief moment of indecision, she stepped toward him, her thin shadow looming monstrously on the firelit wall behind her.

“I’m sorry,” she said softly. “You seem so … whole … I wouldn’t have guessed.”

“Do I?”

“Yes. Don’t you feel that way?”

“No,” he replied honestly and wondered just why he’d done that. But as her gaze softened, he knew. Sharing losses created a bond of vulnerability and labeled paths to be trod cautiously.

“Are you afraid? I mean of the Mashiah?” She dug fingernails into her arms, staring at him with unnerving intentness. “I realize you don’t know him or the horrors he’s capable of.”

“Every battle scares me to death.”

“I’d have thought that a man of your experience would get over fear.”

“Never happens.” He spread his legs a little wider, glancing at her out of the corner of his eyes. Despite her beautifully shaped woman’s body, it seemed almost too willowy, too frail for the rigors of Horeb’s deserts … or of revolution. Yet he knew she’d organized and served as one of the leaders of the opposition movement on the planet. Rathanial had filled him in completely, pulling a six inch file from a drawer and spreading the reports across eight feet of table. It created a strange dichotomy inside him. On the one hand, he felt the need to protect her from life’s horrors and on the other, he knew she probably didn’t need his protection … or anybody else’s for that matter.

“I didn’t figure anything would scare you,” she said. “Especially after the sneak attack you pulled in the Safed system. I’ve heard the Magistrates still haven’t recovered from that one. We heard they suffered nearly three thousand casualties compared to your one hundred and fifty.”

Surprised by her knowledge, a small flush of pride and embarrassment went through him. “And I thought I endured in anonymity.”

“Oh, we hear very little out here at the edge of the galaxy. Just the major triumphs.” She suddenly looked very impatient, wringing her hands nervously. “Well … is that enough ‘small talk’? I don’t want to be rude, but—”

“But you’d like to hear Rathanial’s ideas on killing this man you hate. Yes, I certainly understand that.” With a wide sweep of his arm toward the cave opening, he added, “After you, m’lady.”

She walked past him, then stopped. “Oh, wait. I need to leave Sybil a note in case she wakes up while we’re gone.” Trotting gracefully across the room, she pulled a sheet of paper from her pack and jotted a quick note, leaving it on the floor beside her daughter.

“She can read?”

“Of course,” Rachel whispered as she swept back toward him. “We have very good schools here on Horeb.”

“The Mashiah allows the schools to continue? I’m surprised. That’s the first thing tyrants usually eliminate.”

“He’s a … different sort.”

Jeremiel gave her a quick speculative glance. Her tone had changed, grown soft and tremulous. “So I’m learning.”

They exited and trod softly down the corridor. “Does he prescribe a particular curriculum? Or are teachers free to educate?”

“The only classes he demands be taught are human history, intergalactic lingua, Gamant religion … and the religion of Milcom.”

Jeremiel cocked his head in reluctant approval. “Broadminded of him, allowing the traditional systems of thought to be taught.”

“He uses the ‘errors’ in the traditional systems as tools of conversion to the more ‘sensible’ religion of Milcom.”

“Indeed? You must tell me more about his theology.”

They halted a moment at a three-pronged interface of corridors. Checking his map again, they turned left and plodded in silence for a time, footsteps echoing dully from the red walls. Finally, he came to the door with the yellow curtain, marked on his map. “I think we’re here,” he said uncertainly, then called, “Rathanial?”

A voice from inside responded, “Come in, Jeremiel.”