Debt of Ages (35 page)

* * *

"I still wish we could have stayed for Andreas' wedding," Tiraena remarked.

"Yeah. I'll bet Sidonius pulled out all the stops for them." Most of Sarnac's attention was on Loriima III, whose night side occluded more and more of the stars as they approached it.

As Tylar had promised, the transitions between timelines had been less unpleasant when returning to the reality wherein they belonged. They'd likewise negotiated the temportal in the outer reaches of the Solar system with ease, and Sarnac had been surprised by the lump that had formed in his throat when he'd sought out Sirius and found a blue-white star of apparent magnitude -1.43. Then had come the soul-shakingly brief voyage to Loriima, and yet another temportal transit. They emerged into the very night on which a Robert Sarnac whose memories had held a large hole had departed with a mysterious character calling himself Tylar. Now he had an embarrassing notion of how much it must have cost to have emplaced a temportal simply to get him back to that night. At least, no such expensive expedient would be required for Tiraena at Naeruil II; Tylar would simply take her there at a pseudo-velocity calculated to get her there on the night of her own departure.

Tylar joined them. "We're now stationary relative to the base, and within range," he informed them. A portal blinked into ghostly existence. Within it, Sarnac recognized his office suite. "Shall we go?"

They'd had time for extended goodbyes during the voyage. Now they exchanged a quick embrace. "Hey," Sarnac said, "someday we should tell Claude and Liranni the unvarnished truth about all this. They'll think their parents are crazy old coots!"

"They already think that, Bob," Tiraena informed him as gently as possible. She gave him another squeeze. "Take care. You've still got a war to attend to, you know."

"Huh! Piece of cake!" A final kiss, then he turned and stepped through the portal with Tylar.

They were in the outer office. Tylar led the way into Sarnac's inner sanctum. "You'll find that only an insignificant amount of time has elapsed locally since your departure," Tylar said. Then: "Well, I suppose that's it."

Sarnac took a deep breath and asked the question for which he'd awaited this time when they'd be alone. "Tylar, are you a god?"

There was a barely perceptible pause. "As you'll recall," the time traveller said mildly, "Tiraena asked me that question once, fifteen of your subjective years ago. You'll also recall that I responded in the negative."

"I know," Sarnac said flatly. "I also know you lie a lot."

Again, Tylar hesitated for such a brief instant that it was impossible to be certain he had hesitated at all. Then he spread his hands diffidently.

"My dear fellow, does the answer really matter? Indeed, does the question itself not become meaningless if it has to be asked at all? I leave you with that thought." He turned to go, then paused and faced Sarnac one last time. "I will answer your question to this extent: whatever I am, and whatever label you choose to apply to what I am, I emphatically am
not
the unknowable One, Who is as unknowable to me as to you." His face broke into a mischievous grin that made it unrecognizable. "On this point, I am being
entirely
candid with you!" And Tylar was gone.

Sarnac was left standing in the midnight dimness of his office of Loriima III. He glanced at the desk chrono—yes, it was the same date and time. Then he heard movement behind him. He whirled around, then relaxed at the sight of the figure in Fleet uniform.

"Well, Artorius—or is it Captain Draco?" he drawled. "What are you doing here? I thought you'd be with Tylar."

"Actually, Admiral, I asked him for an extended leave of absence, which he granted."

"Huh? Why?"

"Well," said the onetime High King of the Britons, "you did me a good turn, which I feel I should repay. And I've always hated to begin a job and not finish it. And . . . well, I have some ideas for the coming campaign against the Korvaasha. It's a bloody
interesting
tactical problem."

Sarnac smiled and draped an arm over the other's shoulders. "Captain Draco, I think this is the start of a beautiful friendship."

It's seldom advisable to take Tylar at his word, but his real-world biographical asides concerning Sidonius Apollinaris, Ecdicius, the Patriarch Acacius, and Pope Gelasius are accurate. The same is true of Cerdic of the West Saxons and his son Cynric, up to a point. The semi-historical Cerdic's personal background is, of necessity, a matter of inference. That he was part-British can be taken as a given, in light of his name. That he was from the Saxon settlements on the lower Loire is speculation, albeit a reasonable one. His parentage as herein set forth is sheer fancy.

Other fifth-century characters who actually lived include the British High King documented on the continent under the honorific "Riothamus" rather than his given name, and Constantine of the Dumnonii, although I've taken minor liberties with his dates. Many of the rest, including Gwenhwyvaer, Kai and Peredur—and, for that matter, Bedwyr and Balor—have some kind of basis in legend. The imperial couple Wilhelmus and Hilaria, and the eunuch Nicoles, are, of course, purely fictitious.

I've followed a common practice by using "Saxon" as a catchall for the various tribes of Low German speakers—Saxons, Angles, Jutes and Frisians—who migrated into Britain in the fifth century. It would be anachronistic to call them "English." The Irish were actually called
Scotti
by the Romano-Britons. This doesn't mean they came from Scotland, but rather that Scotland (Caledonia in the fifth century) was later named after them because some of them settled there, although Ireland, where most of them stayed, is of course not called "Scotland." It's all too confusing, and too Celtic. In these pages, the Irish are called the Irish. The tribal designation "Fomorian" is drawn from legend.

As in
Legacy
, I've generally used modern place names (Chester, Bourges, Troyes) rather than ancient ones (Deva, Avaricum, Augustobona), accepting anachronism as the price of clarity. But whenever a modern name is jarringly inappropriate (France, Istanbul) and the ancient one is well-known (Gaul, Constantinople), I haven't hesitated to opt for the latter. Likewise, years are given according to the present system of
Anno Domini
dating, which didn't become standard until the sixth century.
¹