Episode 35: Brambles in the Fortresses
Invidia woke in the infirmary. Impossibly, she was still alive. A sense of urgency pushed her to sit up, but the instant she moved, spots of white dotted her vision, and her head pounded. She collapsed back onto her bed.
Panic. Terror. Rage. It had all crashed over her at once when she thought the Diviner was going to kill her, and now every muscle ached.
"Princess Invidia." Her personal physician rushed to her side and blocked her from getting out of bed. "You need rest. You suffered a severe blow to the head. Healing is complete, but you must rest to ensure you do not re-injure yourself."
Invidia swatted the old man away. "Gatlantis is in mortal danger, you fool," she snapped as she sat up again, this time more slowly. She activated her comm implant with a tap and accessed damage reports.
It was catastrophic but better than she'd feared. They had withstood the Diviner's attack.
The overshield was gone, fully depleted. It would need to be recharged. The outer defense ring was half destroyed, and nearly all systems had suffered severe damage, but Gatlantis' core was intact and showing no signs of breech.
While Invidia skimmed another handful of reports, her physician scanned her face and neck and gave her something for her tension. It also eased the intermittent dizziness.
"You're recovering well," her physician said when Invidia had closed the last report. "The concussion was severe, and I wasn't sure how long it would take before you woke. You've slept over thirty-six hours."
Invidia cursed. A full day and a half gone. She had to fix this—make sure Gatlantis never suffered another wound so terrible. Fortune had favored them this time, but there were no guarantees it would do so again. They had to get as far from the Diviner's territory as possible, and they needed a leader who wouldn't take idiotic risks like this again, no matter the political implications.
Gatlantis needed her to take the throne. Now.
"Leave." She ordered the old physician out.
He obeyed quickly.
The moment the physician was gone, Invidia sent an encrypted message to her quarters, so Deun would receive it. While she waited for a response, she searched video, reports, sensor logs—anything she had access to that might tell her where the Diviner had gone and how soon she'd be back for a second assault.
Nightmarish images of the man accompanying the Diviner still invaded the edges of her vision. Every time she looked up, a flicker of brilliance danced in the corner of her eye only to dissipate as soon as she tried to find the source.
Though her anxiety refused to abate, the abject terror she'd known as she stood beside Dyre and her father, watching as the Diviner hurled her wrath at Gatlantis, had numbed into determination. Shame over how she'd behaved moved her to scour every piece of available data, but it also gave her perspective. Now, she understood why her father had been so angry with her during his confrontation with the Diviner. She'd allowed cowardice to make her behave like a terrified child. And that was unacceptable for the future ruler of Gatlantis.
She reviewed the recordings of the Diviner's attack. In a flash of light and unbearable heat, Telezart had transformed into a wall of energy and slammed into Gatlantis' overshield. But though the light burned away their protective barrier and blasted through the upper portion of the worldship, it failed to penetrate the core. Gatlantis' reactor was untouched.
According to reports and current sensor logs, Telezart had disappeared. Even its gravity well and lone moon were gone, as if the world had never been there. The Diviner seemed to have vanished too. Though that was no guarantee she was dead. Gairen's prophecy still had to be considered. He'd spoken of the Diviner acting in accord with the Original ship, yet there was no ship present during Gatlantis' confrontation.
Invidia picked a loose thread from her infirmary blanket, partially untangling it, and leaving a ragged edge.
Going after the Diviner again would be their doom. They had to find the Original ship and destroy it. Her father had given Desslok that task, but he trusted the Gamilon far too much. So long as a single member of the Original crew survived, Gatlantis was in grave danger.
She pulled another thread loose from her blanket, making the frayed edge worse.
Her father might be oblivious enough to believe the Diviner dead, but she wasn't fooled. Space was vast, and the Diviner powerful enough to lie in wait as long as she wished. After all, a century had passed since last she'd confronted them. What was another two or three weeks? She was toying with them, giving them false confidence.
A third then fourth strand came loose from Invidia's blanket as her fingers worked the threads free of one another.
If they went after the Original ship, they'd be going against the Diviner's demands. She'd instructed them to leave the ship alone and return home. How would she respond if they ignored her instructions? Would she truly destroy them this time?
Perhaps not if they acted quickly enough.
Invidia's fingers tangled in bedraggled threads as a whole section of her blanket unraveled. She shook free of the mangled weave.
Time was short. Too short for her liking.
Dyre stood outside Sabera's room in the infirmary. The Prime Minister's personal physician had forbidden anyone other than medical personnel from seeing her. He couldn't even access her vitals. Those were restricted to the medical team assigned to care for her. According to Princess Invidia's sources within the facility, Sabera's condition still hadn't changed, and nothing the physicians did brought her any closer to waking.
If he'd had the opportunity, Dyre would have ended Sabera. The easiest way would be to use one of Gairen's untraceable poisons, but without a way into the Prime Minister's room, and no means of disseminating a fatal dose of air-borne toxin, there was little he could do to accomplish his goal.
It had been almost two days since the Diviner's attack on Gatlantis. The bruises, broken rib, and other injuries he and the rest of the generals sustained during the assault had healed, but his side was still tender, and he had to be careful he didn't breathe too deeply. Zordar had taken the brunt of the blast when the front of the council chamber exploded, but he would be completely healed in another two days.
A white-clad member of Gatlantis' medical staff walked past Dyre. The man's quick, efficient gait said he was headed somewhere important.
To keep from drawing attention, Dyre left the Prime Minister's door and headed out of medical center 31425. He passed people of all ages being ushered to rooms or surgical suites.
After the Diviner's assault, only the Prince himself, those on Zordar's council, and other high-ranking members of the worldship had received medical treatment. Many of the lower-ranking nobles were only now being seen by physicians, and those with lesser statuses—the common people, servants, slaves, and other non-Cometines—hadn't been tended at all.
As Dyre reached the front entrance, a man, near Dyre's age and wearing tattered clothes, pushed past him. The stranger's bare foot caught Dyre's boot. The man stumbled and grabbed Dyre's shoulder to keep from falling.
"Help me," the man rasped, eyes wide in fear. "My son is dying!" His grip on Dyre tightened. "Please." The stranger noted Dyre's general's uniform and immediately let go of him. He sank to his knees and covered his face. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. Forgive me, sir. Please, don't send me to the core." His begging turned to pleading again. "My son needs healing. Will you tell the physicians to see him? I'll do anything you ask. I'll serve you the rest of my life. I only want my son to live." Tears tracked his face and left damp patches on his tattered shirt.
Whoever this man might be, he was no noble. By his light brown skin and thick accent, he wasn't even Cometine. How many of Gatlantis' native populace would be neglected in favor of outsiders like this man and his son?
"Get out of my way." Dyre pushed past the stranger, ignoring the man's continued pleas. There were others who deserved help far more than him.
He left the man weeping beside the medical center's door.
As Dyre headed for the nearest common area, his comm notified him for the tenth time that he had waiting messages—including several from Princess Invidia. He ignored them and took a seat at an open-air café.
A serving girl with brilliant pink skin was immediately at his table. A crisp white bandage covered one forearm, and bruises littered her neck and face. Perhaps she'd been part of the mob Gairen had gathered to try to persuade Zordar to stop his advance on Telezart.
Dyre gave her his order, which she brought to him promptly.
He gave her nothing for her quick service.
As the girl hurried to assist another newcomer, this one a noble with a noticeable limp, Dyre sipped his drink. Nearly two days he'd considered what to do now that the worst had happened, and they'd survived. He still didn't have an answer, but Gairen's prophecies of doom kept echoing in his mind, and no matter how much he tried to reason them away, they would not leave.
Heavy dread turned his stomach to stone as he sat in silence, both hands wrapped around his cooling drink.
Sabera stood inside a clear bubble of air. Dark ocean depths surrounded her, and rocky ground cradled the sphere. Here, in the darkness, visibility was limited. The shadows of giant sea plants fluttered, but only when the indistinct forms of fish swam past. Each creature was stranger than the last. Grotesque proportions—large mouths and bodies and tiny eyes—marked the inhabitants of the deep.
Rock walls sprang up on either side of her sphere, trapping her within a trench. Without the aid of added light, she couldn't tell how far the gorge extended, but the longer she stared into the blackness, the harder it was to take even breaths. Unknown horrors might lurk in the murky dark—things far bigger than her.
A giant strand of greenish blue slapped the outside of the sphere. It was wider than Sabera's hand, and its frilly edges rippled in the wake of a school of bio-luminescent fish.
She'd never seen this place in the archives, so it couldn't be one of the few seas remaining on the throneworld.
A shadow passed overhead—something huge. It disappeared, headed further down the trench. In its wake a whisper flooded through Sabera's sphere.
"Bring us to Origin's heart,
the lowest place within her sphere,
where we may offer our thanks
for your glorious provision,
and your triumph in bringing
your loyal ones back
to the shores from whence we sprung.
When we stand in that lightless hollow,
Warbringer, show us your undeniable presence,
your power, your majesty,
and raise our dead to life again."
She didn't know who'd spoken the Oath, but its very presence meant she must be… on Origin. But if she was on Origin, the Oath… would be fulfilled.
She would see Mil again—hold him—hear his cherished voice.
Sabera turned a full circle, searching the sphere, the water outside.
So many had given beloved children to the Warbringer's fire, trusting the promise of the Quickening Oath. So many had grieved until the noble quarter drowned in the tears of mothers and fathers who'd given up their own offspring for the future of all Gatlantis.
"Mother?" The word was strong, innocent, clear. But it was nothing like the voice of the baby she'd surrendered to the fire twelve years ago.
With slow, terrified steps, Sabera faced her lost son.
A boy, nearly a young man, greeted her, arms outstretched, tears streaming down his smiling face.
"Mil!" Sabera wrapped her son in a hug and kissed his forehead. The warmth of his small frame infused her with something she hadn't felt in a very long time. Joy.
Mil threw his arms around her and buried his rounded nose in her hair.
"I missed you—so much," she choked.
Her son's grip tightened. "I never thought I'd see you again." Sadness clouded his voice.
"Shh. It's okay." She stroked his short, dark hair—the same color as his father's before it turned white. "We're together now." Her tears seeped into Mil's shirt.
Mil settled into her embrace. "I wanted to be with you so much."
"And I wanted to be with you."
The darkness outside pressed closer, almost invading their little sphere. Walls that seemed solid moments before bowed beneath the weight of countless tons of seawater.
"We need to go, my sweet Mil." Sabera reluctantly pulled free of her son. "We have to leave. Now."
"But we can't, Mother." Mil pointed down. A sturdy bolt, its circumference as big as Mil's waist, anchored their sphere to the ocean floor. Sabera was sure it hadn't been there a moment ago.
She dropped to her knees, gripped the bolt with both hands, and wrenched. When it didn't budge, she wrapped her arms around it and tried again, leveraging every ounce of strength. But the bolt wouldn't loosen.
If she didn't free them, the sphere would collapse. They'd both drown. And she'd lose Mil all over again.
"Help me!" she cried to her son, but Mil only stared at her, looking puzzled.
In a moment of rationalization, Sabera knew it didn't matter if she loosened the bolt. There was no way out, and if she managed to free the sphere from the rocks beneath them, water would gush in through the hole in the floor.
A prick of water hissed through a tiny breech in the transparent sphere's wall, and within a half second the sea gushed in.
Water shoved Sabera against the wall of the sphere, pushing her through the other side of the now-flimsy bubble and out into the darkness.
Sabera reached for Mil. Her fingers brushed his. Then an invisible current yanked her son away, pulling him toward the surface.
The sea swept her along the trench. Shadows surrounded her. As the last gulp of air whooshed from her lungs and water replaced it, she thought of Mil and how much she regretted giving him up twelve long years ago.
Sabera woke, choking.
In moments, her personal physician was at her side, and he quickly removed the breathing tube causing her distress.
"Wh—where—" She coughed, her throat dry and raw.
"Do not attempt to speak yet," her physician instructed.
"Wh—what's happened?" Sabera rasped before breaking into another fit of coughs.
"Please, Prime Minister, you mustn't. It could cause lasting damage." He affixed a patch to the side of her neck, and some of her pain eased, but talking was still nearly impossible. "Let me complete—"
Sabera waved him silent.
She'd been with Mil. She'd seen her son. Tears streamed down her face. She let the doctor think they were from the coughing.
This was a medical facility. Which one wasn't important, but she didn't remember coming here, nor did she recall why she'd been unconscious. Mil's beautiful face still clouded her memory, and a flood of new grief came with it.
"Get—out—" she croaked at the physician.
He scurried away.
When the man was gone, she wept bitterly. She'd held Mil, spoken to him. He'd been with her again. Her little boy. Wracked sobs made her aching throat burn, but she couldn't stop. Every time she tried, another burst of pain would bring more tears, more loss.
Once all her tears were spent and her anguish numbed to a dull throb, pieces of the truth she hadn't been able to recall before trickled into place.
She'd gone to the gardens. At night. Venik was with her.
Why was she there?
A flicker in the shadows. Dark eyes. Snowy brows. A stocky frame.
Dyre.
Sabera reached for the rest of the memory.
She'd known Dyre would be there. And… Someone else was with the old general. Someone younger, smaller, more foolish. A knife-thrower.
"Invidia," she growled the Princess' name as her side twinged from where the girl's blade had nicked her. The little snake had finally shown some courage instead of slithering away to hide. She hadn't thought the girl capable of anything this bold. She'd tried to humiliate the princess. That was why she was in the gardens that night.
She laid a hand across her chest. The skin beneath her robe was soft, new.
She'd been burned—her heart stopped by the discharge of a laser pistol.
And it was Dyre who'd fired it.
The traitor! She wanted to scream—to twist his disloyal neck until it snapped. She hadn't even suspected him. He'd gotten her access to Invidia's private sim-room, told her the princess' plans on more than one occasion.
He'd played her.
The remnants of anguish from her dream about Mil became simmering rage.
It was time Dyre and Invidia were disposed of. No more waiting.
The general would be easier to do away with. He might be devout in his faith, but his politics were far more complicated. If she dropped the right information to certain people, they'd make sure Dyre never took another breath.
No. She'd do it herself. That would be far more satisfying.
Her fingers curled around a fistful of blanket and squeezed until her knuckles ached.
But how to get rid of Invidia without deposing Zordar first?
If Invidia and Dyre were smart, they'd have gotten rid of all evidence of their involvement in the attempt to assassinate her. So, an outright accusation of wrongdoing would get her nowhere. Without proof to back her claims, Zordar might or might not believe her. It was a serious charge, and leveling it would put another target on her back.
Better to take care of this strategically—not give Invidia warning.
She called her physician back in.
"Prime Minister." He bowed. "Please, you must not speak."
Sabera frowned and opened a blank holographic display. On it, she wrote, "Tell no one I've recovered."
"Y-yes, Prime Minister." He quickly erased all traces of her awakening from the records.
"Now, fix my voice." She scribbled this quickly and pointed to her throat with an emphatic finger. Her glower emphasized her annoyance.
"I will do my best, Prime Minister." He scrambled for the device that would let him accelerate healing and allow her to speak.
As the man ran the small device up and down her neck, Sabera imagined the moment she would finally kill Invidia and savored each bloody thought as the pain in her throat eased.
There was only one reason Invidia would be bold enough to try to eliminate her. She wanted to wrest power. With failure would come a sense of urgency, and when Invidia grew impatient, she took drastic measures. The princess' scheming was ill-fated. And Sabera would be there when Invidia's newest plot failed.
Invidia injected a double dose of calming agent into her neck. Despite multiple types of anti-hallucinogens, the shining man who'd stood with the Diviner still dogged her peripheral vision, slipping in and out of view every few seconds. Even when she closed her eyes, his presence refused to leave. She was going to go mad if she couldn't get rid of him.
But the specter wasn't her only worry. She was going to do the very thing she'd tried to convince her father not to—defy the Diviner.
As the drug took effect, the sense of someone watching her didn't vanish, but it gave Invidia enough relief to think clearly. She had no time for self-doubt—no time to be plagued by ghosts or visions. If the Diviner intended to strike again, there might not be another chance to do what needed to be done.
Deun's reply to the encoded message she'd sent twenty minutes ago arrived.
Invidia stood. A bout of dizziness quickly came and went. She walked off her remaining panic as she waited for Deun to do as she'd instructed in her message.
A full ten minutes passed. Her comm notified her someone had requested to enter her private sim-room.
Darkon.
She snorted at Deun's uninspired alias as she locked the medical suite's door and slipped into her sim-room, instantly donning the face of her Silver Queen avatar. "What took you so long?" she hissed.
"Did you think I could access this place from an unsecured connection?" The derision in his tone was thick.
He wore the false face he'd employed aboard the Original ship: medium brown skin, dark hair and eyes. Even without his natural blue hue and red gold hair, he looked so like Desslok, and he stared at her with impatient arrogance.
They stood outside the cave Invidia had taken Dyre and Gairen into before enacting their plan against Sabera. She motioned Deun—Darkon—inside.
Quiet darkness—mercifully free of the phantom that had dogged her since she woke—surrounded them until they emerged in a cavern deep inside the cave. A willow sapling stood tall and lean in the middle of a still pool. Shafts of light cascaded down from above, illuminating the dimness. It wasn't her preferred meeting place, but it would suffice now that her original spot had been compromised.
Invidia followed a path of raised stones across the water and came to stand beneath the young tree.
Deun followed her.
When they stood side by side near the willow trunk, Invidia said, "My father must die. Tonight."
Deun kicked a twig into the water, leaving a wide ripple spreading across the otherwise still surface. "So direct." He chuckled. "And how will you… eliminate him?" He picked up another stick and broke it into three jagged pieces with sharp cracks that echoed through the stone chamber.
"My confrontation with Sabera failed because, like a fool, I waited when I should have acted. Now, I can't kill her without throwing suspicion on myself. The only way to correct this—to correct everything—is to kill Father before Gatlantis recovers from the Diviner's assault. The people will need a strong leader to fill the power void."
"And that leader is you?" Deun laughed as he flicked a piece of broken twig into the water, creating a second ripple overlapping the first. "If you've already decided what to do, why call me?"
"Someone had to make sure I'm not interrupted."
Deun launched the second piece of wood into the water, and the resulting third ripple created an impossibly intricate pattern with the first two. "What makes you think I'd want to be involved? I'm in exile, but the universe still knows who I am. If I become party to killing one of the most powerful men in existence, I'll become a target for those loyal to him. Perhaps it isn't worth the effort." He gave her a sly grin.
Invidia smothered anger. She hadn't wanted to offer him anything in exchange for his help. He'd gone along with her plans so far because he wanted a chance to humiliate his brother. But since he was no longer aboard the Original ship, and Desslok was lightyears away, that possibility had been tabled.
"I'll give you a worldship," Invidia said.
Deun shook his head. "Not enough. What good is a worldship if I have to spend the rest of my life running, hiring mercenaries to protect me?"
"A worldship and a capable crew."
"Better. But it lacks imagination."
"And the location of one secret armaments facility."
Deun snorted. "If I'm going to have a hand in the great Zordar's demise, I want something he values, not a collection of meaningless trophies."
"What do you want?" Invidia growled.
Deun flicked his last bit of twig into the water, sending a fourth ripple careening through the other three, creating chaos. "I want you."
She'd rather he'd asked for the throne. If she agreed to this, she'd be shackled to him—politically, if nothing else. He was a decent temporary diversion, but she had no desire to create a permanent connection. Even if she never formally took him as a husband, he'd still be her consort, part of her house. She'd never be rid of him, and he was too clever to be taken unaware.
But there was no time to find another solution. Even her attempts to contact Dyre had gone unanswered.
Her avatar's fingers ground into the simulated willow bark. "All right." She grimaced as she said it.
"I have your word?" Deun said.
Nothing she said within the confines of this sim-room could be recorded, but even without proof of what he was owed, Deun would not allow her to renege on her promise. If she said she would honor this agreement, he would make sure she fulfilled her part of their bargain.
"Yes…" The word turned her stomach. She'd just sold herself for power. It was a bitter price, but it would be worth it. And it wasn't as though she hadn't done the same countless times before. So why did this feel different?
The look of smug triumph on Deun's face made Invidia want to choke him. "What do you have planned for your father's last night?"
Heavy stun-cuffs pinched Gairen's wrists as a group of two dozen armed guards walked him back to his quarters in the Warbringer's temple. He'd spent the last day and a half in a detention cell. His punishment for killing the security forces sent to stop him from gathering the protest mob. He should have been incarcerated much longer, but he hadn't complained when the order came for his release. It had taken a full day for the Stardust to wear off, and his cell reeked. He much preferred the clear, slightly floral scent of his quarters.
Everyone with him in the common area had been dosed with a heavy amount of Stardust. Some had passed out instantly while others reeled before collapsing onto benches or tripping over one another as they toppled into dazed heaps. Only a handful had maintained their feet, and by the time security came, Gairen was the only one left standing.
He hid amusement. Even dusted it had taken twenty men to capture him. He'd let them win—but by then he'd accomplished his goal in warning Gatlantis' people of the danger in defying the Warbringer's plans. The worldship might not have been destroyed. This time. But that didn't render the prophecies false. There was still much they didn't understand, and Gairen was unwilling to wager his life on the slim chance the Warbringer was wrong.
Gairen and his troupe reached the temple doors. With a deep groan, the entrance swung open to allow them through.
Before Gairen had taken three steps inside, four of his escorts grabbed the collar of his robe and shoved him into his living quarters before scrambling out like frightened insects. The last one to leave threw Gairen's walking stick onto the floor. The wood's heavy clatter filled his living space.
Once the guards were gone, Gairen retrieved his walking stick.
The body heat from his escorts had masked it before, but the room was still too warm. That coupled with the faint whoosh of air coming from the near corner said he wasn't alone.
When the lingering odors of sweat and terror faded, a distinct musk replaced them.
Gairen faced his visitor and took a knee, planting the tip of his staff on the floor. "Prince Zordar. How may I serve you?"
The swish of a cloak hem accompanied the slightly uneven echo of boot soles on metal as Zordar approached. "It was foolish of you to try to sway the people against me."
"Perhaps, my prince. But you know I had the best interest of Gatlantis at heart."
Zordar's chuckle wasn't as loud as usual. "You had your best interest at heart. But I admire your passion and strength. I wish my generals had such fortitude." The prince came closer. His stride remained irregular, confirming Gairen's suspicions. Zordar had been wounded in the exchange with the Diviner, and it was bad enough that the physicians hadn't been able to completely correct it yet.
The prince stopped four steps from Gairen. "It's come to my attention you've been under house arrest for some time. That edict is rescinded. So long as you refrain from gathering insurgents, you're free to go where you please. But know I will not tolerate another incident like the last."
"Yes, my prince." Gairen kept his head down in a show of obeisance. He hadn't expected to regain his freedom. The Warbringer was smiling on him. Should Terius or Princess Invidia require his services, he'd have one less barrier to aiding them—should he choose to.
Zordar headed for the door. "Might and cunning, Gairen. Continue to show both, and you will always have a place in the Warbringer's halls."
"Yes, my prince." Gairen remained on his knees until Zordar's footsteps faded.
He stood without the aid of his walking stick and went into his study. Hidden beneath the desk was a tiny compartment no bigger than Gairen's hand. From it, he withdrew a full vial. The swish of liquid made him smile. How he'd missed carrying phantast tears. Now, he could relish the scent of them whenever he wished, just as he had when he'd hired out his lethal services years ago.
The time for hiding was over.
"The Pale Reaver rises."
Desslok verified their sensor readings. A Gatlantean fleet, headed by Nasca, passed through here, heading toward Erats. Even after Trelaina's attack on the worldship, they'd maintained course and speed.
He'd read the damage reports, skimmed from Gatlantis' info net by Alina Tuvalin aboard Hadar. The damage was extensive enough to stop the worldship for at least a week, maybe longer. As a matter of pride, Zordar would never let them continue until the fortress was in optimum condition. He couldn't fault the man. It was also a practical concern. Going into battle under-powered might mean defeat—or worse, destruction. Had they faced Trelaina at anything less than full strength a day and a half ago, the only thing left would have been space debris.
Beside Desslok stood Masterson, occupying his usual post a few steps from the captain's chair. Ever since Desslok announced they would resume following the Eratite ship, Masterson hadn't stopped his nervous shifting. The repetitive creak of the man's boots and swish of his cape had long ago faded into background noise. It didn't matter how many wrongs the Eratites committed. Somehow, Masterson still sympathized with them.
A notice informed Desslok they were within direct communication range of General Nasca's fleet.
He opened a channel.
Nasca took his time answering, and when he spoke, his tone was clipped. "Desslok. We picked up your ship on sensors yesterday." Despite the man's apparent confidence, a haunted look shrouded him, and his eyes darted erratically.
"Nasca." Desslok dropped the general's name with disdain. "At your current speed and heading, you'll intercept the Eratite ship in five days. Alter your course."
Nasca raised a thick brow. "So, you are still fiercely territorial."
Desslok had only slightly more tolerance for Nasca than for the Eratites, and if he ever had opportunity to dispatch the man, he'd do it without a second thought.
"All I want is to take what belongs to me," Desslok said. "And vengeance is mine." He wanted—needed—to see the Eratite ship in pieces, their captain dead by his hand. He would see that crew suffer for what they'd done, for all the lives they'd snuffed out, and the millions more they'd condemned to death by halting his efforts to make Erats their home.
But as he envisioned his victory over the Eratite ship, Starsha invaded his thoughts. Again. Since he'd escaped Gatlantis, he'd been unable to keep thoughts of her from surfacing. Retrieving the Interface glove from Imperator's wreckage had only made things worse. To have the ability to contact her and be unable to act on that urge was maddening.
"We will not alter course." Nasca's voice wavered, and he cleared his throat to stabilize it. "And I'll not slow to accommodate you." The man's courageous veneer was slipping.
"You will avoid that ship, General." Desslok's ire filled the bridge, and more than one officer stopped to cast fear-filled glances at him. Even Masterson stopped fidgeting.
Nasca visibly retreated. "By Zordar's order, I cannot change my course." His voice cracked as he said the last few words. One more push, and his ridiculous front would crumble.
"You do not command the effort to expunge that cursed ship from the universe," Desslok said. "I do. Turn aside or be destroyed." He might have a small fleet compared to Nasca, but with recent improvements, his ships could match the Cometines in speed, and he had no doubt even the lowliest of his crew was far more valiant than any officer under Nasca's command.
Nasca stood frozen for an unnaturally long time.
He was filtering his video feed—hiding his fear.
When Nasca's true face reappeared, he said, "If you catch us before we reach the Eratites, I'll leave them to you." Sweat made dark strands of hair cling to the general's face. "They're a nuisance I don't care to be bothered with. Should you arrive before we engage them, I'll instruct my ships to allow you to pass unhindered."
Just before Nasca vanished from the feed, that same haunted look from before returned. Whatever plagued the general, it had made him weak. By all reports, he'd witnessed Trelaina's assault on Gatlantis, albeit via hologram. If what he'd seen had unnerved him, he wasn't worthy of his rank.
"Prepare to warp," Desslok said the moment his call with Nasca ended.
They would meet the Eratite ship soon, and he would finally be rid of it.
But as he waited for the crew to complete preparations, he wondered about Starsha. What had happened to her since the Eratites left Iscandar more than a year ago? What would she say to him if she knew he still pursued them? She would disapprove, of course, but just hearing her voice again might make enduring her anger worth it.
"Preparations complete," Helm announced. "Warp in one minute."
One minute. Such a small thing. But how often had he missed the Eratites by just that margin? He would not miss them again.
Invidia crept silently along the hidden passage, Deun following not three steps behind. Only two days ago, she'd used this same path in an attempt to talk her father out of attacking Telezart. Tonight, it would lead to her greatest ambition—claiming Gatlantis' throne.
Deun's hot breath radiated along her neck and shoulders. After the bargain she'd made for his help, she'd rather have a pack of tunnel crawlers scrabbling across her feet than be with him. She'd tried to make Deun take another route to her father's suite, but he'd insisted it would be too easy for someone to spot him, so she'd acquiesced.
Zordar's rooms were only another hundred steps ahead. Invidia took them slowly. The calming agent she'd injected at the medical center had long ago worn off, and she wished she'd administered another dose before enacting this portion of her plan.
She took a stuttered breath.
It wasn't fear making her hands shake and her heart skip beats. It was anticipation.
As a child, she'd witnessed Zordar and Sabera murder her mother in the very room where she'd soon end her father's life. That moment, so many years ago, had ignited her fascination with blood. Tonight, she'd spill her father's. The intense odor of it would be intoxicating.
Her hands itched to hold her knife—the heavy one emblazoned with the Warbringer's fire.
She could shoot him. It would be easier. But it was such a waste of an opportunity, and it would draw guards. No. A blade was the far superior choice.
Admittedly, she hadn't fared well against Sabera when she'd decided on a blade, but she'd made a fatal mistake then. She'd hesitated. She wouldn't make the same error tonight.
They reached the loose panel leading to her father's quarters.
Invidia removed the metal plate. The silence inside her father's suite was so complete she feared to breathe, lest she wake him.
She and Deun stepped into Zordar's private bedchamber.
Deun slipped through the darkness with the stealth of a shadow. He was at the door in seconds. As he sneaked out of the bedchamber and into the rest of the suite, Invidia waited. He would need fifteen seconds to reach the suite's entrance and another fifteen to dispatch the men stationed outside her father's door.
Half a minute was all that stood between Invidia and her rightful inheritance.
As the seconds passed, her hand hovered closer to the hilt of her knife.
When her count reached twenty, she went to her father's bedside and watched his chest rise and fall. Even in sleep his brow creased with disapproval. Or did he sense his impending demise?
His left leg was mostly uncovered. A long scar ran from his ankle all the way past his knee, and some of it remained hidden beneath the sheet.
So, he hadn't escaped the Diviner's wrath unscathed. If the physicians hadn't completed healing it, the initial wound must have been gruesome.
She smirked as she drew her knife and silently raised it above her father's bare chest.
Movement flickered to her right.
She jumped, swinging her blade toward the intruder.
But no one was there.
Another flash. To her left this time.
Invidia whirled, following the shadowed form that kept just to the edge of her vision. No matter how quickly she moved, the intruder was faster.
Deun appeared at her side. "What are you doing?" his hissed whisper was no louder than the barest of breaths. "Stop waving that blade at nothing and use it."
"Someone's here." She followed the moving shadow around the room a second time.
"There's no one in this room except the three of us." The urgency rising in Deun's voice made Invidia nervous.
"Yes, there is. Can't you see them?" She waved her knife toward the ever-moving figure.
"Give me that." Deun grabbed Invidia's hand to wrest the knife from her.
She shoved him away, but he was stronger than her. He wrenched her fingers away from the hilt. When she wouldn't let go, he bent one digit backward until she screamed and dropped the knife.
Zordar stirred.
Deun grabbed for the weapon but didn't catch it before it hit the floor with a silence shattering clatter. He snatched up the knife and lunged toward Zordar, caution forgotten.
A brilliant flash burned Invidia's eyes, and the face of the man who'd stood beside the Diviner stared at her. His face was wreathed in white fire as he raised his sword above his head.
The next instant, he vanished.
Invidia crashed to the floor, eyes clamped against shooting pain.
"Invidia!" Her father's angry bellow preceded a yelp of pain from Deun.
She forced her eyes open. Tears of agony blurred what little she could see, and her breaths came in ragged gasps as the silhouette of the shining man still burned into her vision.
There was no time for this. She had to cover the truth.
Zordar was out of bed. Though he clearly favored his scarred leg, he was otherwise just as strong as before. He gripped Invidia's knife in one hand and Deun's neck in the other.
"I tried to stop him, Father." She jabbed a finger toward Deun, who struggled to break Zordar's hold on his throat. "He would have killed you as you slept! He's already murdered your personal guard. I found them dead outside."
Invidia's vision cleared enough to allow her to see the pure hatred in Deun's eyes.
"You… snake…" Deun rasped.
Zordar tightened his grip on Deun's throat and earned a desperate choking sound as the man clawed at Zordar's hand, trying to loosen it. "You'll not speak unless I allow it." He angled the knife upward, just under Deun's ribs. A single thrust would send it into his heart. "Perhaps I won't let you say anything ever again."
The door to Zordar's bedroom hissed open, and the lights rose to a comfortably muted glow.
Standing at the threshold, clad in white, was Sabera.
Invidia's gut went cold.
"Prince Zordar." Sabera drew her side arm. "I suspected there would be an attempt on your life tonight. The same person who sought to kill you also tried to kill me."
Invidia couldn't move, couldn't speak. Her sources hadn't told her Sabera was awake, much less that she was coming here. She could end Invidia's aspirations of power with one word.
But Sabera leveled her weapon at Deun. "It's fortunate your daughter was here to alert you." Her eyes flicked knowingly to Invidia before she approached Deun and lodged the muzzle of her laser pistol in the man's lower back. "Poor fool," she sneered. "You really thought you could win."
Deun's desperate gasps stopped as he passed out. Zordar dropped him, and he sprawled across the floor.
"He played a deadly game." Sabera caught Invidia's gaze and held it. "He didn't realize just how impossible his ambitions were, did he, Princess?"
Invidia wanted to find the darkest corner of the worldship and hide there, out of reach of Sabera's poisonous stare. But she was out of moves.
The game was over.
She had lost.
And Sabera was making sure she would live to experience the consequences of her failure.
Episode 35 Notes:
The title for this episode was taken from Isaiah 34:12-13:
They shall call the nobles thereof to the kingdom, but none shall be there, and all her princes shall be nothing.
And thorns shall come up in her palaces, nettles and brambles in the fortresses thereof: and it shall be an habitation of dragons, and a court for owls.