Chapter 20
Gillie splayed her hand against the access panel and deactivated its lock. Her heart pounded, but that was more from her mad run down the stairs than from fear. She knew what she had to do. She knew she could do it. All she needed was time.
Izaak was on top of the stalled lift, bruised but alive. His father, Jared, was a more serious matter. Somehow he'd tumbled from the flat roof of the lift and wedged against the shaft wall. Gillie eased onto the narrow walkway on the other side of the panel, crouched down in the darkness. Light from the open door above filtered down weakly. She could see Izaak's outline. But only with her Raheiran senses could she find Jared, his father. The lift blocked not only the light, but fortunately, anyone's view from above.
"Izaak? It's Gillie. Mister Toby's friend who gave you the flute." She dropped part of her mental shields, took another scan of the child, as she was closer now. He was terrified, but nothing his mother's arms couldn't fix.
"G-G-Gillie? I lost my flute."
"It's up there in the corridor. We won't worry about that now. I'm going to try to help your father, okay?"
"Okay."
"You stay there. Don't try to come down here. Understand?"
"Understand."
She pulled her belt from around her waist, held it in both hands. Softly recited ancient words, drawing spellforms into being. The belt lengthened and took on metallic form. She hooked one end on the metal railing edging the walkway, lowered herself down.
"Jared?" With one hand she moved her fingers over him until she found his shoulder, then his neck. His life essence was weak.
She opened her senses further. Massive internal bleeding, broken arm. Pain. Intense pain. She adjusted her grip on her cable, inched down further.
The lifestones in her pocket called to her, but he was almost beyond their help.
"G-Gillie? Is my father okay?" Izaak's voice caught in a sob.
His mother's screams, and the angry shouts of stationers, echoed down the shaft.
Simon. This is not an easy decision. Saving Jared meant she might risk being seen, identified.
You saved Izaak because it was not his time.
Nor was it his father's. She felt that, knew that. She knew it as well as she knew her own name. Gillaine, Kiasidira, Ciran Rothalla Davré.
She whispered the words only a true Raheiran had the right to say: T'cai l'heira, Ixari. T'cai l'heira, Merkara. She drew her sword and touched the flat of its blade against Jared's crumpled form. "T'cai l'heira Raheira, Tarkir."
The short sword flashed a bright purple light that enveloped her and Jared like water filling an empty vessel. She pulled it into herself, sent it through Jared's essence-cleansing, strengthening, healing. His eyes flickered open briefly, but that wasn't what worried her.
It was a young boy's hushed voice a few feet above her. The golden hue of a Raheiran Kiasidira now surrounded her, merging with the ethereal purple glow of the crystals, and she knew he could see it. "Goddess! Goddess!" But for the high pitch, he sounded too much like Tobias.
She touched Jared's forehead, cheek and chin with her index finger, whispered blessings, sealing her spellforms. Holding Jared together until the med techs could arrive.
Security is at the stairs, Lady Gillaine.
She shoved the sword under her jacket, glanced up at Izaak, silhouetted by the dim light above. In spite of her instructions, he was hanging over the edge of the lift's roof.
"Izaak."
"You're not just Gillie, are you?"
"Sometimes I am. But I need your promise not to tell anyone what you saw me do. Will you keep that secret for me?"
"Promise. And my father?"
"Will be fine. The doctors are almost here. I have to go." She hauled herself up the cable, reformed it back into her belt. "You're a very brave boy."
"Sometimes I am."
She smiled, shoved herself through the accessway and remembered to skew its lock permanently open just as bootsteps sounded in the corridor.
* * *
Gillie desperately needed a hot shower and a drink. But she waited a half hour for Simon to intercept reports on Izaak's father from sickbay. And another twenty minutes after that to see what the news media made of the incident. Much publicity was given to the fact this was the third lift accident in as many months. But in spite of Izaak's shy admission that he'd prayed to the Lady Goddess Kiasidira for help, there was no follow up to that. No interview with Magefather Rigo or worse, further questioning of the child. For now, the story seemed to center more on malfunctions than miracles.
She finally permitted herself the luxury of a shower and was pulling on her soft purple sweater when her commlink trilled. "Davré's Serendipity."
"It's Mack." He sounded tired, annoyed.
She sucked in a quick apprehensive breath and held onto the hope that he hadn't heard any reports of an odd purple mist or golden glowing lady in a lift shaft on Down 12.
But then, Rigo's shrine opened tomorrow. Maybe that was the reason for his annoyed tone. Not the mysterious purple mist or golden glow. And not his talk with Tobias, which still weighed heavily on her mind. But she assumed if the trouble were either Tobias or Izaak, Mack would've tracked her down long before now; not waited a half hour before she was to meet him for dinner.
"Hi, yourself." She put a lightness she didn't feel into her voice, replied with what had become their unofficial, playful greeting. Even if he hadn't opened with his unofficial part. It was one other reason she knew something was wrong. "I just have to run a brush through my hair and then-"
"I can't. Gillaine, I'm sorry. Dinner's out tonight. I've got things to cover yet with Tobias, Donata Rand."
"Want me to pick up something from Maguire's, bring it to your office?"
"Thanks, but no. I might not be here."
"You have to eat sometime. I'll wait."
"I don't know when we'll be through."
Damn. A small tendril of fear wove around her heart. "Sounds like things aren't going well," she prompted, hoping he'd at least allude to what troubled him. She knew he wouldn't mention Rigo specifically on the commlink. But she needed something more than just this strong note of frustration she heard in his voice. She needed to know it wasn't because of her.
"More like too many things. Just too many things right now."
"Can I help?"
Silence. A long silence. At least, it seemed that way to Gillie.
"That's something we may have to talk about," he said finally.
"Sure." An icy pain laced through her. "What time will you be home?"
"I'll call you."
"That's okay. I'll wait up-"
"On the Serendipity. I'll call you on the Serendipity if it's not too late."
This time the silence was hers. He was not only canceling dinner, he was canceling her spending the night with him. The pain around her heart swelled, tightened.
"I love you, Mack." Her voice had a slight tremble.
"I love you more than you can possibly understand, Gillaine." He hesitated. "I'll call you."
The commlink clicked off.
"Simon!" Gillie dropped her hairbrush, headed for the bridge. "Find Tobias. Now!"
My Lady, it may not be what you think. He did say he loved you.
"More than I could possibly understand. I don't like the sounds of that." She stepped over the hatch tread, shoved herself into her seat. "Five, eight years ago-give or take a couple hundred-some guy penned love poems to Ixari, remember? 'Devotions to My Goddess' or something, he called them."
She ran her hands over the console. Crystal flared, misted, swirled. "Find Tobias yet?"
Working on that and yes, I remember the book.
"He said the whole thing was a 'higher love' that exists only on a spiritual realm. He called it the love that one cannot possibly understand, except through prayer and meditation. This was how he loved his Goddess."
I'm sure Admiral Mack didn't mean it that way.
"I'm not. Where's Tobias?"
Conference room three, on Upper 6, near Ops Lower.
"What's he working on?" She prayed he wasn't pulling up a copy of that holovid of her in the bar, the one where she wore her green sweater. As far as she'd been able to determine, the only copy existed on Traakhalus. But she knew he'd seen it; he'd recognized her from that vid. Her searches of Cirrus's databases didn't include what Tobias might have in his personal files.
He's viewing a layout of the shrine. And several docking bays. It appears there may be some last minute changes.
She let out the breath she was holding. Last minute changes could well be the total reason behind Mack's demeanor. They could also be good news. Anything that delayed the shrine, and Rigo, was good news.
She could fully understand why Mack wouldn't say that on the commlink.
Maybe she was wrong. Now that she thought about it, she couldn't see Tobias betraying her trust. She couldn't see anyone in security giving credence to the ramblings of a scared little boy. And Tobias and Izaak were the only ones who knew who she was.
She took her hands off the console, flexed her fingers. Mack would call her. She felt more sure of that now. He would call her, want her with him. Everything would be all right.
She repeated that three more times in her mind, tried to engrave it on her trembling heart-everything would be all right, everything would be all right, everything would be all right.
She took a deep breath and refocused. "What else are you finding on the shrine? On the official and unofficial channels?" Mack had said perhaps she could help. It wasn't a matter of perhaps. She could help. She didn't see why she had to wait for him to ask. Doing something was better than sitting around, fretting.
Nothing on the shrine you don't know. But wait. Here's something. Rigo's been checking incoming ship schedules. I believe he's waiting for someone.
Good. Something to think about other than what Mack might be thinking about. "Probably just a handful of temple sweepers."
Temple sweepers usually don't travel on a Class One star yacht.
Gillie raised an eyebrow. No, they didn't. Could the Prime Hostess be arriving early? But the chancellor's wife would travel on a Fleet ship, under guard. A Class One star yacht was luxury. Decadent luxury. "Passenger list?"
Simon was quiet while searching. Only one. A gentleman traveler by the name of Carrick Blass. Owner and captain of the Windchaser.
Carrick Blass? The name meant nothing to her. But his sole status on the ship told her he either had incredible wealth, or incredible connections. He also had Rigo anxiously awaiting his arrival.
She decided to find out why. If nothing else, it would keep her from wondering when Mack was going to call, and what he would say when he did.
There was the typical dinner hour crush in the corridors. Groups of Fleet personnel in black mingled with civilian families, rebellious plaid-skirted sons in tow. Young girls had finally removed the cascading braids from their faces, but taken to decorating them in glittery face paint. Gillie waited in line for a lift. The executive docking bays were far uplevel on U8. No star yacht worth its class would dock lower level.
She exited on Upper 8. She wasn't far from Ops, on U7 and 6. Once she checked out this Carrick Blass she could wander downlevel, perhaps catch Mack in the corridor.
She needed to see him, if only for a few moments.
There were six executive docking bays that opened into a general waiting area. They were very plush by Cirrus's standards. All the chairs were padded, none were ripped and the stains on the carpeting were almost unnoticeable.
Three men in merchanter tunics talked animatedly near Bay 5. At Bay 4, a lone woman sat near the doorway, datapad open in her lap, fingers tapping distractedly on its edge. Whoever she waited for appeared to be late.
Rigo was the only person at the doorway for Bay 2, his back to her. He shifted from foot to foot, his long clerical robes swaying slightly.
Gillie slid onto a bench behind some potted ferns in the middle of the room. Rigo had no reason to suspect anything if he saw her; she didn't even know if he'd remember her from their one brief encounter. But she also didn't want to take any chances.
She would face him sooner or later over very serious matters. The less he noticed her before then the better.
Her wait stretched to five minutes, almost to ten before she heard the thump and clunk of a ship locking down to the decking grapples. She relaxed, stretched out her legs. Another ten minutes yet. She knew routine.
It was exactly ten when the doorway swooshed open. She peered through the palm fronds. Rigo raised one arm and waved. Stupid, because he was the only one waiting at the doorway. And the man stepping through was the only one coming out.
She rose, walked briskly to her right as if heading for Bay 1. Rigo's back was to her but as she glanced over her shoulder, she clearly saw Carrick Blass.
He was almost as tall as Mack. Perhaps the same age. At this distance, it wasn't easy to gauge that. But his light hair was thick, his form, under his expensive suit, trim. He was definitely handsome, but whether that was a natural attribute or one financially enhanced, she couldn't tell. She stopped at a news kiosk and looked past it at him. She dropped her mental shields a few degrees, scanned.
Slammed her shields shut, plastered herself against the wide curve of the kiosk. Her heart pounded. A sick feeling rose in her stomach from the brief, almost vile, contact.
Melandan. Carrick Blass was Fav'lhir. Not a weak Melandan heritage, like Rigo. But true mageline. A-
Impossible, Simon's voice said in her mind.
No, not impossible. It's been over three hundred years. She swallowed her anger, her frustration. A sorcerer. The Fav'lhir are back, Simon. And they have a true mageline sorcerer in their ranks.
Her hand shot to her hip, grasping for the sword that wasn't there. The sword Rigo had secreted. The one she'd found, that slept in her cabin.
She hadn't thought to carry it-hadn't thought she'd need it yet. When the other admirals, when the Prime Hostess arrived, yes. She'd be ready, on the defensive.
But now? A Melandan sorcerer within reach and she with no sword, no quick means to confront him other than a battle of pure magicks in which destruction would be rampant, innocents could get killed.
Then this was not meant to be the time, nor the place, My Lady.
She gritted her teeth and watched Rigo and Blass walk by, unchallenged.
* * *
It was late, near midnight, but Mack had to talk to Gillie now. In person. This wasn't something to do over a commlink. And it wasn't something that could wait until the morning.
He trudged up the Serendipity's rampway stairs, hands shoved in his pockets. The airlock door slid open before he could take his hands out and slap at the intercom on the freighter's hull.
Gillie, still dressed for dinner, he noted with a pang of guilt. Her lavender and green eyes looked distinctly troubled.
He shrugged lightly. "Hi. Can I come in?"
"Hi yourself. And since when do you have to ask?" She stepped back, motioned toward the corridor.
She had a pot of coffee on the table of her small ready room. He eased into a high-backed chair next to her, gratefully accepted a hot cup.
"Lots of things going on?" she asked.
"Yes." But where to start? With the most troublesome. No, the second most troublesome. He wasn't ready to face the most troublesome, yet.
Coward, said a small voice in his head. He reluctantly agreed and added "selfish" to the description. He was selfish. He loved Gillie more than he'd ever thought possible. He wanted her in his life. He just wasn't sure anymore what that would entail.
He put down his coffee. "I've run into a problem."
"With the shrine or with me?"
"A little of both."
"Tell me."
Funny. "Tell me" had always been his line. And she said it with the same authority he did. The same authority that now wasn't going to make her very happy. "I need this docking bay."
Incomprehension flickered across her face, followed by an expression of relief. "That's it? You need this bay? So I'll move-"
"I've got nowhere to put your ship. That's the problem. Gillie, I'm sorry. We've had to make some last minute alterations because of Rigo's shrine. And because of the upcoming dedication ceremony. And other issues," he couldn't tell her what they were, "attendant to that."
"You need me to leave."
"No. I..." He swept his hand out. "Your ship's beyond repair. Maybe it's time you faced that fact."
"A few more weeks-"
"I can't give you even a few more days. I need this bay and there's nowhere I can store the Serendipity. She's not in good enough shape to tether to an exterior dock. I contacted some people I know in scrap and salvage. They'll buy her from you for parts. You'll get a good price for-"
"No!" Her denial held a mixture of anger and anguish. She shoved herself to her feet, almost knocking over her coffee cup. Mack caught it in time and righted it.
"You can't scrap Si-the Serendipity. You don't understand. He's not-" She turned abruptly then stopped a few feet from the table, her back to him, hands clenched at her sides.
Her reaction startled him. He assumed she'd be upset, even a little angry. She'd put a lot of time in trying to repair this ship. He understood that. But she was not only angry, she was afraid. He could almost sense a wave of cold fear shooting through her at the mention of the scrap dealer.
She turned back to him. "I'm sorry." Her shoulders slumped slightly. "I know the problems caused by the shrine. And I know, I've heard rumors of who'll be on station for the dedication. I understand the position you're in. But scrapping my ship is not an option."
"If you're worried about a place to live, you can stay with me. I want you with me." He did. He wanted her with him and that was all that mattered. A ship was just an object. Hell, she could have the whole Fifth Fleet if she wanted it.
He smiled, but she didn't smile back. He grasped at the most likely reason for her distress. "With the money you'll get, you can pay off your cousin, or whoever owns this ship, for the loss."
"I own it. The ship's mine."
"Your papers-"
"Are false. Mack, I thought you figured all that out by now."
He knew some of them were forged. He didn't think all of them were. "Because you're Raheiran."
"Yes."
He didn't see the problem. "So the ship's yours. Then the money's yours. You can use it as down payment on another Rondalaise."
"This isn't a Rondalaise." All emotion left her eyes, her face. Her voice was quiet. "It's a Raheiran ship. Your friends in the scrap business couldn't even come close to recompensing the value."
"It's a freighter."
"It is not."
Something in the formal way she phrased her denial caught his attention. It made him think about his other problem, the one he didn't want to deal with right now. Gillaine Davré's creative omissions. "Then what is she?"
"A Raheiran Raptor-class starcruiser. And his name is Simon."