Crown Of Fire (16 page)

She felt as if she'd barely fallen asleep when her dreaming mind was snatched into a reality more vivid than life. She sat on a gilt chair, suspended from space over Citangelo—except that it wasn't Citangelo, but an eerie transmutation of the metropolis, built over a basalt mountain that reminded her of the Shuhr's Golden City.

A Voice sang from everywhere, a Voice she'd heard like this once before, flinging the worlds into existence. This time, it addressed her, singing deep and sonorous,
Strength, Firebird. Whence your strength?

She trembled at the solemn sound. "My strength is from you, Mighty Singer." Her feet dangled over thousands of meters of empty space. It would be easy to fall to her death.

The Voice rose one note of the scale.
Valor, Firebird. Whence your valor?

"From . . . you." Her own voice sounded pitiful, breathy.

One by one, the Voice thundered the Netaian Powers. Each time it spoke, it ascended one note of a modal scale like the Sentinels used in worship.

Silence rang in the heavens with one Power left. Firebird clenched both arms of the gilt chair ... her mother's chair. Her sister's chair. The chair Muirnen Rogonin had stolen from them.

Now the Voice sang in a whisper, all notes of the scale and the half steps too, a dissonant tone cluster.
Pride, Firebird. Whence your pride?

Other voices sang a chorus out of her memory, her own thoughts and words.

Pride, impatience, willfulness.

To be Angela was to be proud.

The pride she would feel if she saved, Netaia ...

If only Rogonin knew how easily she and Brennen could destroy him!

She could only imagine the ballads that might be sung about the wastling who saved Netaia.

Let
me
bring mercy and light to my people.

She could accomplish so much if she stayed he-re.

Maybe she was meant for the throne.

Commander, Commander, Commander...

And she'd turned away from Brennen tonight when he gently tried to warn her.

Of all the nine Powers, Pride was the only one
Dabar
and
Mattah
rebuked. It was her birthright and her burden. It was the Adversary's claw, caught in her soul.

—By her own permission. She'd forsworn too much of her upbringing to cling to that as an excuse, when it came down to pride.

"From myself," she admitted. The relief of honest confession balanced her pain. Maybe pride fueled that flaming, dark taint on her soul.

Pride brought you here, my child.

He did not disown her. He still called her His child.

Silence rang, a grand pause deeper and longer than Firebird could bear. She whispered to break it. "Forgive me, Singer. I wanted to save Netaia myself. I wanted—I still want to catch the Shuhr who murdered my niece, Destia." And there was more. "I want to be seen and admired, and respected . . . saluted." She'd explained to everyone that she came to serve Netaia's people, but deep in this dream, her buried reasons clamored for recognition.

Without truth,
said the Voice,
you are vulnerable.

"And . . ." Would this dream never end? She couldn't bear this. "You may have called Brennen here to get the intelligence he needs, but you didn't call me. I ... wanted ... I still want," she managed, "revenge. For Destia and her family."

Revenge is mine,
sang the Voice.

"But I do want to help my people," she insisted. "I want to save them." She knew what she must add. She resisted. Disappointment hung in the heavens, so keen and loving that she couldn't hold back. "... Myself." She let it out, almost choking on that admission. "I want to save them myself, without giving anyone else the chance to do it."

The sky rejoiced again, billions of molecules dancing to music she could not hear.

"But, Singer, you brought me into this royal family. You gave me this longing to achieve and the abilities I would need. I could help the common people. Truly, I could." As she argued, her chair rose higher, and loftier, until the sky around her darkened toward black. The fall, deadly before, now looked twice as terrifying.

Pride,
sang the voice,
brings a long, long fall. But never so far I cannot catch you. You are mine. Forever, I have called you. The final price is mine to pay.

But the consequences are yours. I shatter the proud heart, so that you may wear my image.

Slowly, the gilt chair tipped forward.

But I give grace, and true peace, to the humble and contrite. To the obedient.

The chair kept tipping. Firebird scrambled around to seize its ornate back. The farther it tilted, the harder her cheek pressed against the starred-shield Angelo crest. Her body slid, first a few centimeters, then farther. "Singer!" she pleaded. "Help me!"

Know this,
sang the Voice.
Even in tragedy, I am God. I am not surprised.

She woke in a puddle of sweat.

Brennen lunged for the nightstand, where he'd concealed a blazer.

"No," she groaned. She touched his arm. "It was a dream."

"Mm," he mumbled into the pillow. Then he rolled over. "You don't feel," he said slowly, "like you had an ordinary dream."

"No." The word came out in another groan. "Brenn, I... I may have made a terrible mistake."

GREAT HALL

"Show me," Brennen said gently.

She buried her head against his chest, clinging to him as his presence filled her, comforting, seeking, observing. Safe in his arms, she watched the dream unwind again. Meanwhile, more accusations rattled through her mind. Her self-absorbed whining at Hesed while Brennen faced the Shuhr at Three Zed. Her eagerness to accept the Assembly's invitation, and rub noble noses in her new status, even before Brennen's people conceived the entrapment mission. Even her hope to wear Netaia's colors at Three Zed, supposedly for Netaia's honor.

Our humility before the One,
Brennen had said. He'd been trying to tell her this. Pride still dominated her mental habits. If only it weren't such a long Path from the first sheltered steps to actually arriving!

When the dream ended again, she gripped Brennen tightly, still terrified by her self-imposed height.

"What can I do?" she asked, knowing there was no easy answer.

"What do you believe you should do?" His arms pulled her closer, chest to chest, until her chin rested on his shoulder.

"I don't know. Yes, I do," she realized. "I have to pray."

"I will, too."

Clinging to Brennen, she begged the Infinite for wisdom, for direction. Should she retreat, after all? Fly back to Hesed, resign her new rank ignominiously, and cancel the ceremony? That would be the ultimate death of her pride. She could never show her face on Netaia again.

No. She must not back down. Brennen needed that information. They must take a Shuhr. . . .

And couldn't that be done some other way? Danton's people, accompanied by plainclothes Sentinels, had fanned out across Citangelo— but they had turned up nothing.

Quieting her mind, she waited for an answer.

It came softly.

She could not save Netaia. Only the Electorate could do that. . . but she had offered to serve the Federacy. She had also sworn to Bur-kenhamn that she would serve Netaia, and she must keep those promises. At least, she had to try. The Singer would bring success or failure and show her the consequences of stepping out in pride.
I shatter the proud heart....

Do what you wish,
she prayed, clenching her hands behind Brennen's back. She felt the pulse in the side of his warm neck.
But don't, I beg you, don't let Brennen suffer. Or Kiel, or Kinnor. Spare my loved ones. Everything I have... it's yours. Take my life, or my self-absorbed happiness. I will try to serve you.

She pulled away from Brennen.

He kept one hand on her shoulder. "We're going ahead, aren't we?"

She nodded miserably. "Maybe He'll be merciful. Maybe I've repented in the nick of time."

" 'We are called to a higher standard,' " he quoted solemnly. "And, Mari, we'll have the biggest guard force Citangelo ever saw. He didn't tell you the Shuhr would actually take either of us."

"No." She stared into darkness. "If I backed out now, that would be the ultimate insult to the Assembly, the Electorate ... to Netaia itself. Not to mention Governor Danton, and the Three Zed situation—"

"I didn't say you should back out. I think you're right. We have to go ahead, and we've been warned that if anything happens, it will be a natural consequence of what we've already done. Both of us. You aren't here alone. The real price, Mari—the final debt—is paid for us."

"I understand." ...
I
think.
For all her intellectual assent, she still flinched away from accepting someone else's atonement.

Brennen rolled away from her, sliding off the bed.

"Where are you going?"

His answer came out of the darkness. "I'm going to spend the rest of the night praying. Get your rest."

A vigil? Good idea. Excellent idea. She wished she'd thought of it first.

She rolled off the bed and onto her knees beside him. She could think of only one thing the Shuhr might do that would utterly break her proud heart.

Please,
she begged.
Don't let them take Brennenl

Some hours later, she stumbled out of the bedroom bleary-eyed. After a minute of shuffling through duffels, she picked out a simple dark blue outfit to carry into the freshing room. Halfway through her vigil, she'd found her recall pad, loaded the Soldane University simulation program, and run two more projections through the complex equations. Sure enough, Governor Danton could count on another half year of peace if she went through with the ceremony, whether it ended in celebration or disaster. Then, struck by a horrible thought, she ran a different chain of events. Sure enough, a Shuhr attack would also stave off civil war—but probably destroy Netaia.

Surely that wasn't your plan,
she reflected.
Surely we were right to come back.

From the adjoining cubicle, she heard percolating sounds. Brennen was already in the other vaporbath.

According to her Path instructor, acting out of pride was the spiritual equivalent of proclaiming that she was her own little goddess, her own holy Power.

I thought I'd shaken loose from them!

Fear came straight from the Adversary, though. She counterattacked with an Adoration she'd memorized before leaving Hesed.

Do battle with those who attack me.

Rise up for my help, and let them be ashamed,

Drive them off with your mighty weapons.

My soul shall rejoice in your salvation.

Who is mighty like you, rich with mercy?

Who delivers the weary, and binds up their wounds?

Clothe my enemies with shame and dishonor,

But let those who love me shout joyfully,

"Exalt the One, who defends His beloved!"

That calmed her. Live or die, they remained in the Singer's hands. Nothing could touch her, or Brennen, without His permission.
His sovereignty,
Master Dabarrah had said,
cannot operate independently of His love.

I'm only your servant now,
she prayed, and this time, she felt a difference. There was no thrill in the thought of confirmation now. She must trust the Singer. . . today like every day. . . but today, it would be much harder than usual.

Two minutes with a hot brush dried her hair. Tressers at the Hall would worry it into a style of their choice. Her physical person was only raw material to be costumed.

During their swift ride across town in an armored base car, she fought an unseen battle. Her imagination roiled, suggesting possible consequences. Death, injury. Catastrophe. A sprung trap, with no one caught inside.

She fought back:
Exalt the One, who defends His beloved!

Streamers hung from buildings, draping them in gold and Angelo scarlet. Netaians loved pageantry.

She sent off one last frightened prayer.
Take me, if there has to be a sacrifice, like long ago in your temple. He could survive without me, but...

She glanced sidelong at Shel, imagining herself six years from today, still recovering.

Brenn murmured, "You're all right, Mari?"

Staring ahead, Firebird could see his reflection in a panel that separated them from Uri and a base driver—the fine chin, the dark eyebrows framing his blue eyes. He pressed a finger against the scar on his cheekbone. Outside, the air was cold and still, a typical winter morning. Knots of people stood on street corners.

"Yes," she answered. She would not give in to fear. "Are you?"

He said, "Yes." She couldn't tell if he too was struggling.

After confirmation, and before tonight's ball, she was expected to bestow charitable gifts from her new allowance. Giving away as much Angelo money as possible seemed a worthwhile goal. . . and finding an architect. She'd meant to do that, anyway. Rogonin would be into the Angelo accounts soon, if he wasn't already.

As Port Road dead-ended on Capitol, she spotted a long line of huddled forms along the roadside, people who'd slept beside the street anticipating the traditional motorcade back to the palace.

Sadly, she wouldn't see them again. There would be a decoy car in that motorcade. She and Brennen would be flown over by Federate shuttle.

The golden cube with its ice white columns loomed ahead. She felt Brennen's dread at the sight of it, and this time, she couldn't steady him.

The Shuhr wanted him dead, not her. He was the Carabohd heir. To them, she was just a distraction.

She caught a flicker reflecting off his eyes as he glanced at her. He must've caught her worry, because instantly his dread changed to a slow, relaxed drone she recognized from Chapter worship. He'd gone beyond reciting Adorations to focusing on the Singer himself and praising Him.

She should do the same. In the Adorations, praise led to deliverance and victory.

And victory—eternal victory—had been guaranteed.

The car whisked them to the blockhouse. Black-uniformed city Enforcers escorted them through the tunnel. At a turning near the main gravity lifts, Brennen's escort urged him forward while Firebird's Enforcer waved her to the right. "I'll be a little while," Brennen said, and he walked on with Uri.

Ten meters along that corridor, the man in black opened a door. Firebird pushed through, followed step for step by Shel. Two women who'd been sitting on a bench scrambled to rise and half bow.

Now Firebird was only a player on a magnificent set, and she might as well try to enjoy what she'd come here to do. Everything lay in the Singer's hands. She must trust Him, put on confidence—that was allowed, when pride wasn't!—and walk open-eyed onto the trap's trip plate. Governor Danton's people, Thyrica's people, and even Citan-gelo's Enforcers couldn't catch Micahel if she and Brennen didn't lure him out.

But maybe she still could try one thing.

She turned to the nearest servitor. "I need to get a message to First Lord Erwin." She dictated her request one more time, this time as a flat refusal. She would not accept the Powers' blessing.

Then she moved toward a table piled with pressboard boxes. "All right. Where do we start?"

"With this, evidently." One woman held up a shimmering silver-white garment. "Compliments of His Excellency, the Governor."

The body armor she'd requested! She reached for it. "Decorative, don't you think?"

"He asked if you would return it undamaged."

"He sent one of these over for Brennen, didn't he?"

"I don't know, my lady."

"Have someone check. Please."

Another servitor was dispatched while Firebird submitted to undressing. The first woman went for her hair while the second slipped soft, cold, shimmering armor up her legs and arms and down her chest. It covered her body from ankles and wrists to a wide V neckline that she guessed matched her regalia, barely exposing her collarbone. "I've never seen anything like it, my lady. The Federates have wonderful technology."

"Yes, they do." Firebird had never seen anything like it, either.

An hour passed. She relaxed in the cloth-of-gold undertunic, washed down a roll with hot cruinn, and let the women arrange her hair, apply makeup, and finally dress her. She wore Brennen's chain long today, hiding the medallion low but determined not to take it off. Considering how little she'd slept, she felt thoroughly awake. Two more times, she sent servitors with messages for First Lord Erwin. Nothing came back.

The older woman held the crimson train in place for the younger to pin with shoulder brooches. This was truly Firebird's last chance to gracefully back down. She reviewed her choices, weighing the risk they were taking against the hope of capturing Micahel Shirak or his comrades—if even a Shuhr who could blur his face to a mob was overconfident enough to walk into a building full of Federate guards! Brennen might as well still be a Master Sentinel, for all the Shuhr's chance of striking undetected.

But Brennen had said that an ES 97 Master could detect epsilon-cnergy uses that a room full of 32s or 50s might miss, so maybe a Hall
full
of guards wouldn't keep Micahel home today. Plainly, the Shuhr had waited for this moment.

Her hands shook as a servitor slipped a house signet ring onto her right hand. The women had the good grace not to ask if she was feeling all right. They knew now that there was a threat of disruption. Shel remained by the door in an attentive stance, her Sentinel midnight blue a shock in these surroundings.

More shocks like that one would be reassuring.

I trust you. Tou only.
Yes, Brennen's obedience at Three Zed cost him terribly—but the Singer preserved his life. He'd accomplished his real purposes.

Let us serve you today, too.

Rogonin would probably watch on tri-D from the North Hall. She doubted he'd miss a chance to wear his robes of office. He valued pageantry as much as any other elector. The high-commoners who chose to attend in the North Hall's safety would still get their eyes full of electoral finery.

"Perhaps my lady would like a final chance at the freshing room?" asked the older woman.

Firebird pushed up a golden sleeve and checked tiny lights on her wristband. Two hours had passed since their arrival. Brennen had said he'd be only a little while. She hoped nothing had gone wrong with security details.

She took her smallest duffel with her, and after taking care of her most pressing business, she pulled out Brennen's old leather wrist sheath. The undertunic's sleeve was tight, but she buckled on the sheath and slipped in her night-black dagger. Also from the duffel, she pulled out Tel's tiny blazer. She checked its charge and slid it into a deep undertunic pocket. This would take a little maneuvering to draw, but she practiced, avoiding the gown's side ties and hitting that inner pocket, where she was expected to keep only a cloth for dabbing at tears of sincere emotion.

She paused in front of the mirror. What a costume, all scarlet and gold. As she slipped back out through the freshing room door, the heavy regalia steadied her stride.

To her relief, she sensed Brennen nearby. It was a splendid stranger she saw, though, standing with Uri just inside the dressing room. Could this be Brennen Caldwell, who never wore more decoration on his uniform than a Sentinel star and the Federate slash?