The Sarpeidon Chronicles Part 5
The Way to Dusty Death
Chapter 4
Jarrod shivered as the palace guard's narrowed eyes traveled from his face to the two bottles of wine-the finest his grandfather's well-stocked cellar had to offer-he cradled in his arms. He had to force himself not to look back at the low wall that surrounded the servant's entrance, where Milos and Argus crouched, watching.
"You say you are expected?" the guard asked with a scowl.
"I am. This is the wine the Tyr-er, the sovereign sent for. I confess I am late, but my master the apothecary wanted to be absolutely certain his work was satisfactory. I hope I won't be punished for his error."
"You'll have to wait here."
The heavy door slammed shut between them, leaving Jarrod with an almost irrepressible urge to bolt. He remembered, though, what Milos had promised to do to him if he gave in to it.
A few moments later, the door opened again. This time, a man in an expensively embroidered tunic stood beside the sentry.
"I am Iyal, Chief Minister to our sovereign Zor Khan. It was I who requested this special vintage from your master. I trust my instructions have been followed?"
"They have." Jarrod fought back a surge of nausea as he held out the wine for the minister's inspection. "Both bottles have been treated with certain substances designed to make a woman I have orders to deliver them personally so that there can be no question of tampering."
"Follow me, then." Iyal turned, his weighty robe swinging in his wake, and strode quickly down the hall. Jarrod's entire body felt so numb that he had to hurry to keep up. Suddenly, Iyal turned a corner and pulled Jarrod out of sight beside him. Pushing him flat against the wall, the older man eyed him gravely.
"I pray Milos has chosen his accomplices wisely," he said under his breath. "All our lives may depend on his judgment."
Jarrod stared, astonished. "You are with us?"
"You might be surprised how many of us in the palace wish you success, even if most of us don't have the courage to act on it." Dropping his hands to his sides, Iyal stepped back and shook his head. "Within this house, we have seen and heard things we will never forget."
"Just do me the courtesy of forgetting you ever saw me."
"You have my word. And I have other words for you, too. Bear in mind that if you fail, there is nothing I can-or will-do for you."
"I know that. I do require one thing of you. See that Zarabeth leaves here safely. She knows nothing of this. Besides, you will face Milos' wrath if she is not returned to him exactly as she was. And I assure you, his revenge will be nothing compared to mine, whatever befalls me."
"I understand your meaning. She will have safe passage." Iyal's lips twitched with anxiety. "Walk forward until you come to the last door on the right. You will find the Tyrant-and the woman-in there."
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Content that he had made his expectations for her second visit clear, Zor Khan saw no need to waste time with mundane social niceties. He tied on a brocaded dressing gown that swept the floor, dismissed his servants for the evening, and sat down on the canopied bed to anticipate a night of transcendent pleasure. The candles he'd arranged around the room glowed a soft red that reminded him of her hair and stoked his own flaring passion.
Only one obstruction hindered his plans-Iyal had reported earlier that his special shipment had been inexplicably delayed. How tiresome and incompetent Iyal was becoming. In the morning, he decided, he would consult with Atoz about a suitable locale for his Chief Minister's retirement. Preferably, it would be somewhere brutal and ugly, a place where Iyal's soft hands and even softer heart would ensure brief survival at best.
Presently two guards conducted her into the outer room and Zor Khan rose to meet them. Ironically, he found wrapped up in even more clothing than was usual or seasonal: a heavy traveling cloak over some serviceable, but far from alluring garments. She regarded his state of relative undress with scarcely suppressed alarm.
Her naivete-whether genuine or not-stirred him even more than he had expected. Perhaps he would not need the wine, after all. How much more challenging, and therefore stimulating, the evening would be without it!
"I am pleased that you answered my summons so promptly," he told her. "I knew you were a sensible girl in spite of your paternity."
She walked toward him, shaking slightly as Zor Khan dismissed his guards. "Actually, my lord, I came because I wish to find out more about your offer. There are a few points I remain uncertain about."
"Tell me." Circling around her, he traced the fold of her cloak as it dropped across her shoulder, finally tugging at the clasp that held it in place. He felt her muscles clench under the fabric, and his own pulse quickened with excitement.
"Well...I suppose I'm unclear about my position in your household. You want me to give you a son. That would be, you must confess, a difficult guarantee to make."
"Perhaps, but on that point I must remain unshakable. My dynasty demands male heirs-and, given the volatility of my kingdom, more than one would be advisable." He sighed. "Obviously I cannot risk taking a barren wife. Surely you see that."
"I suppose. But if I cannot satisfy these demands, what would become of me? Will you cast me aside-or worse?"
"If that is the case, naturally I would be forced to take another as my wife. Let me be truthful. I am a man of ravenous appetite. Whatever happens, you will not be the only woman I bring into my palace. However, I am convinced that you will always be one of my favorites." Suddenly, he wheeled her around and pulled her against him. "I am not a gentle man by nature. Yet you will find me an exciting lover. I can promise you that."
With a burst of strength that surprised him, she pushed him away and crossed the room. "Please, my lord. I came only to talk to you. I have agreed to nothing yet. Nor has my father."
"Your father be hanged!" Within seconds, the pleasant heat of his lust had ignited into raw fury. He advanced on her with quick, deliberate steps, forcing her to back away hastily.
"Insolent wench! Do you realize that I could summon my guards and have you held down?"
"I wish you would not, my lord."
"Your wishes are not my concern. You are here to serve mine!"
She caught her breath sharply and swerved to one side as he lunged for her. A chair, a statue, and a small footstool provided her with only temporary protection; Zor Khan flung each one aside in turn. Finally, the wall itself halted her progress. The Tyrant pulled back his lips in amusement when she hurled herself against it, grabbing the wall hangings as if she believed she could hide behind them. Though she tried once again to roll to the side, away from his clutching hands, Zor Khan easily blocked her and sank his fingers deeply into the supple flesh of her arms. Excitedly he leaned his full weight against her, moving one hand to her hair and tilting her face toward his.
Then, without warning, Zor Khan's world exploded in a burst of sound and a shower of sparks.
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The dim light cast by the candles and the haze of her own panic made it nearly impossible for Zarabeth to see exactly what had happened. All she really knew was that one minute, he was pressing her flat against the wall, his hideously grinning face bearing down on hers. The next, he had crumpled to the floor and collapsed into a spreading pool of dark liquid. She thought it was blood until she saw the silhouette of the man standing over the collapsed body of the Tyrant, the jagged neck of a shattered bottle in his right hand. The rest of the glass vessel, along with its spilled contents, covered Zor Khan's dressing gown and the plush carpet he lay sprawled on.
"Go. Quickly." The stranger looked up at her. His voice was rough with terror. "Iyal has promised you safe passage outside. Your brother and cousin are waiting for you."
She started to reply, but stopped when Zor Khan struggled onto his hands and knees, cursing. This time, the stranger grabbed her and shoved her toward the door.
"Please, Mothe-I mean, my lady. Go, now!"
The words had barely left his lips when Zor Khan lurched up from the floor and pitched forward, knocking the smaller man to the floor.
Zarabeth didn't wait to see what happened. She ran into the hall, where Iyal appeared and hurriedly conducted her into the courtyard. Soon Argus and Milos had pulled her into the darkness with them.
"What happened?" Milos demanded, shaking her when she paused to catch her breath. "Is the Tyrant dead?"
"There was-there was a stranger," she gasped. "I left them fighting one another."
"May the Celestial Ones fight on his side," Argus whispered as they hurried away. "If they will not, we are all done for."
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Just as the Tyrant pulled him to the floor, Jarrod heard the chamber door slam and knew that his mother had escaped. He only hoped Iyal could be trusted. Otherwise she might run directly from Zor Khan's clutches into those of his house guards.
If only he knew what had happened originally. Why had he never pressed his mother for details when he had the chance?
One thing he did know-Zor Khan was not meant to die yet. It would have been so easy to reach down, wrap both hands around his neck, and choke his loathsome soul from his body. Instead, he had to flee-and leave his ancestors to their original fate.
Before he could scramble to his feet, he felt the Tyrant's arms lock around his waist. Seconds later, a sharp pain erupted in his side. Glass shards crunched under the two of them as they rolled across the wine-soaked carpet, their fists flailing at one another. Every moment, the agony between his ribs grew more intense, forcing him to strike out with greater ferocity. At last, he managed to stand and deliver a powerful kick that sent Zor Khan skidding backward. Grabbing his wound, Jarrod broke free and ran for the door. Halfway there, he realized that the wetness on his shirt was not wine, but blood spurting between his fingers. Desperately he bunched his cloak against the flow to avoid leaving a trail of gore for Zor Khan's men to follow. On the floor he saw the jagged bottle neck Zor Khan had stabbed him with.
Endless stretches of hallway opened like a maze in front of him as he ran, oblivious to anything but his own survival. Soon his pace began to slow, as his sight dimmed and his legs grew impossibly heavy. At the same time, his head seemed lighter, as if he were fading into a dream. Perhaps he was-or perhaps, at last, Octavius was pulling him back into the future. When he couldn't take another step, he fell against the wall and squeezed his wristband until he no longer had the strength to make a fist.
Suddenly, he knew he could go no further. In the distance, he heard the running feet of the guards as they closed in on the fleeing assassin. Perhaps this was the way it was all meant to end-perhaps this was Octavius' plan all along. Why, he couldn't imagine.
At the end of a long, last hall, in front of a door he had not the strength to open, Jarrod crumpled. As his eyes began to close, he spared a few poignant thoughts for Leila, his parents, and his siblings. Somewhere in the future, no doubt, they were already mourning him-if the future as he knew it still existed at all. If the guards had killed his mother, or even if she escaped, he knew that nothing would remain as he had left it. This time, his own foolishness, his arrogance, and his misplaced curiosity might well have destroyed them all.
Then, just before everything around him went dark, the door behind him slid open. Strong hands closed around his chest and dragged him through.
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When Spock returned to Octavius' dwelling the following day, he brought with him four green-shirted members of the Embassy's security force.
"How dare you invade my home?" Octavius demanded as they pushed through the door and fanned out to begin a thorough investigation. "Leave at once, or I will make a full report of your misconduct to the Diplomatic Council. When I'm through with you, you will be fortunate to find work in the Embassy galley, cleaning dishes."
"Like any other Federation facility, the Embassy maintains automated equipment for that purpose. In any event, I have already the Council's approval to search the premises and arrest you if necessary."
"On what charge?"
"On the charge that you have violated the most important condition of your asylum here. You may not have been timeslipping yourself, but you have sent my son into the past."
"I told you that I have no idea where your son is."
"Your words are not in dispute. However, their accuracy most certainly is. I have already demonstrated that to the council's satisfaction."
The female security officer called to him from the back of the room. "Sir, we've found something."
Flushing blue with rage, Octavius followed Spock to the curtained chamber. The uniformed woman stood over the pillows that lay scattered on the floor and passed her tricorder through the empty space.
"This is my meditation chamber!" Octavius shouted. "I'm sorry if you are so narrow-minded as to find that suspicious, not to mention to defile its sanctity. I insist that you leave this instant!"
His indignation faded the moment Spock opened the tall cabinet that stood in the corner.
"And does your form of meditation require this device? Most interesting." Leaning forward, Spock peered intently at the glowing object tucked inside. The tiny pictures that glowed on the cube's multiple surfaces reminded him of others he had seen nearly twenty-five years ago...on a disc that had altered the course of his life.
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For a long time after he opened his eyes, Jarrod lay still and waited for his head to stop swimming. From what he could make out, he'd managed to avoid prison, but he wasn't back on his grandfather's estate, either. Instead, the space that held him was close and low-ceilinged, strewn with old furniture and what appeared to be boxes of books. Wrapped around his chest was a stiff bandage, the coarse cloth splotched with rust-colored stains. Thankfully he had not inherited his father's copper-based blood, or whoever had nursed him would soon be asking uncomfortable questions.
The wristband was still in place, too. Gritting his teeth as a flash of pain raced through him, he reached across to squeeze it. Not surprisingly, it didn't respond.
He jumped when a stranger's voice interrupted his thoughts. A peculiar young man with wide, darting eyes and an unfashionably severe haircut crossed the room to stare down at him.
"I am relieved to find that you are not dead. You were so pale this morning that I wondered what I would find when I returned from my duties upstairs."
"So you saved me from the Tyrant?"
"I hid you, yes, and treated your wound. What choice did I have, once you found your way through the connecting passage? My library was never meant to be a place of bloodshed. Zor Khan has changed all that." He shook his head sadly, picked up a book, and wiped a few specks of dust off the leathery cover.
"You must be Atoz. I've heard about you."
"Yes, I'm sure you have. I'm not mad, you know, however Milos and his cronies may slander me. They consider anyone mad who prefers the company of books to that of soldiers. I won't ask who you are. That way, if I am asked, I need not lie."
Jarrod nodded. "Fair enough."
"Not that anyone will think to question me. After all, I'm considered weak, ineffectual-no threat to the sovereign's plans."
"Well, I don't consider you any of those things. I'm very grateful for your courage."
"I must confess, it's as much hatred for the Tyrant as concern for you that drove me to act as I did. Still, it's more than most people around here would dare to do. You and Milos are the exceptions, apparently."
"Yes...Milos." Jarrod sat up and gasped with pain. "Tell me, Atoz: how long have I been here? What happened to the others? Was Zor Khan injured badly?"
"He was injured, yes-badly, no. Those few cuts were not enough to bleed the vileness out of him. I'm sure I don't need to tell you that your life is forfeit the moment you are found; the same goes for Milos and his cousins, though for now the Tyrant hasn't seen fit to arrest them. You may be sure he is using his recovery time to devise the perfect punishment for all of them."
"We both know what that will be: the Atavachron."
"You know about that?"
"Yes." Jarrod was about to run his hands over his face, but stopped and looked down at the wristband. He began to study it as if seeing it for the first time. "In fact, I want to ask you some questions about it."
Atoz finished cleaning the book and gently set it aside. "I remember the first time he showed it to me," he said wistfully. "I thought it was a magician's trick, an illusion. How could a device possibly lay open all the centuries for our inspection, even our participation? It was wondrous." His thick brows sank. "When I learned that he planned to use it only for evil, it saddened me more than I can say."
"What interests me is its history. How did Zor Khan build it? Where did he get the idea? I mean no offense, but none of the technology I've seen here-in the palace, I mean-even approaches it in complexity."
"These questions intrigue me as well. Alas, Zor Khan's trust in me is quite limited. He has appointed me keeper of the gateway itself, but not of its secrets."
"But people must talk. Surely you've heard things in all the time you've spent here."
"Of course there is speculation, but no one is quite sure how he obtained the schematics. Possibly he brought in scientists, engineers, even seers, then disposed of them once they had completed their tasks. I also wondered for a time whether it was some sort of natural phenomenon-a sort of spatial rift that disrupts the normal temporal perspective. How he learned to exploit it I can't imagine. I'm still cataloging the various ages it opens onto. We've discovered about thirty so far. There seem to be new ones each time we activate the portal."
Jarrod continued to run his fingers over the surface of his wristband. "Tell me about the way you prepare people. I've heard about that, too."
"Another necessity Zor Khan has turned into a kind of torture. Experiments showed that prolonged exposure to the rift could cause terrible somatic distortions. That is, one could conceivably enter another time young and healthy, then return having aged a century-or more. To counter those effects, the Tyrant devised a kind of equalizer, to be injected under the skin. It was intended merely to facilitate travel to distant eras. Presently he decided to use it as a kind of temporal ball and chain, to keep people wherever he sends them. They are no longer travelers, but prisoners."
"Atoz, will you take me to see the Atavachron? I must find out more about it."
"Certainly not. You can hardly move as it is. If the guards come upon you there, you would have no chance to escape. Why don't I get you some tea now? I have found a medicinal brew in an old volume that should speed your healing considerably."
Another jab of torment when he tried to sit up convinced Jarrod that Atoz had a point. As soon as he could stand, however, he planned to press the issue again. His suspicion that the wristband might operate on the same principles as the Atavachron was admittedly farfetched, without a shard of real evidence to support it. Still, his only other option was to lie here until Zor Khan's guards stumbled across him and dragged him off to execution.
Sinking back on the musty pallet that had become his bed, Jarrod began to examine some of the hundreds of books piled around him. How ironic: suddenly an entire library of Sarpeid culture lay at his fingertips, and he had lost all interest in anything but the world he'd so foolishly abandoned.
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"Your detention cells are surprisingly comfortable, Ambassador." Octavius sprawled on the tiny room's only chair, which he'd centered under the light fixture. His arms dangled lazily at his sides, the curled fingers just brushing the floor. "If you'd like, I could suggest some minor alterations that would render your prisoners far more cooperative."
"The purpose of this facility is to safeguard, not to punish," Spock informed him. "And I have come not interrogate you, but to inform you that the diplomatic council has sealed your dwelling. I have been given clearance to investigate any devices found inside that could be used for timeslipping." As protocol demanded, he held out a padd. "You may inspect the pertinent documents if you wish. All have been properly worded and endorsed."
Sighing, Octavius lifted one hand and waved the offering away. "I would expect nothing less of you, even if it is your own son we are talking about. My only request is that you handle my possessions with care. You run a great risk by meddling with things you are incapable of understanding."
"I believe my inability to understand them is temporary at best. In fact, I have called in expert assistance."
"It will do you no good. Trust me, there is no user's manual for you to decode. My people developed the technology, and we are the only ones who can operate it properly."
"Then explain to me how Zor Khan learned to use it so efficiently."
Octavius blinked away the startled look that briefly crossed his herpasian features. "I don't know what you mean."
"The moment I saw the mechanism concealed in your quarters, I knew I was looking at a replica of the Atavachron-different in its specifics, perhaps, but based on the same general principles. Since that is the case, it is apparent to me that you bequeathed the technology to the Sarpeids one hundred years ago. What I cannot fathom is why, considering your disdain for any culture you do not consider as scientifically advanced as your own."
"You know, perhaps I did underestimate you, Spock. I don't for a moment believe that you will ever decipher the secrets it took my people several millennia to develop, but in some respects we are not so different. Though you know as well as I do that you are doomed to failure, you are still willing to go to any lengths to ensure the safety of your son. That is no more and no less than what I would do-and what I have done."
"Then Zor Khan-"
"Zor Khan was, and is, my son. As you may know, my people have the ability to transform ourselves to mimic a variety of humanoid races; what you may not know is that we can alter our DNA almost as easily. I have fathered a variety of children over the centuries, most of them totally unworthy to call themselves my issue, not that they ever knew. Zor Khan was different. He was born to be a king-his mother and I saw it in him from the first. Alas, many others stood between him and his rightful throne-including, may I say, your own wife's stubborn clan. Still, I had great dreams for him. I gave him the Atavachron, showed him how to use it. My fellow timeslippers punished me for that, and I know you sympathize with their self-righteous, misguided notions of noninterference. On the other hand, you really can have no quarrel with what I did." Octavius smiled wistfully. "Sarpeid women are as hot-blooded as the men, aren't they? I myself had a preference for the dark-haired ones, though I understand the sorrels are like fire. You would know better than I."
"My opinion of your actions is a subject best left for another time. However, I still fail to see what my son has to do with any of this."
"Do you? Consider this; for a century I have lived with the knowledge that Zor Khan's destiny was not greatness, but an ignoble death at the hands of a coward. Because of my punishment, I have been unable to go back myself and alter events. When I learned from Admiral Taylor that there were yet two surviving members of the House of Jaryd, I began to think of nothing else. How ironic, and satisfying, it would be if a member of the same bloodline that brought about his murder ended up preserving his life instead. Your son has never really considered himself part of this time, or this world. Call it what you will, I gave him what you could not: a chance to find his destiny as a Sarpeid."
Before Spock could reply, Octavius' gaze shifted to a spot behind his left shoulder. An Embassy security guard stood behind the force field, waiting to address Spock.
"Excuse me, Ambassador," he said in a low voice. "Admiral Taylor's shuttle has arrived. She's waiting in your office."
"I take it she is the expert assistance you mentioned," Octavius said when Spock turned back to him. "Take my word for it: neither of you will be able to stop what I have set in motion. Zor Khan will remain alive, and in power-as he was always meant to."