Empire: Book 2, The Chronicles of the Invaders (The Chronicles of the Invaders Trilogy) (34 page)

CHAPTER 62

S
yl stayed under the farthest table for as long as she dared, aware of boots rushing by, and sounds of panic, and quickly the music stopped and bright lights were switched on. There were shots fired as the blood-frenzied ostracas were dealt with, and questions barked as to why the security beams had been switched off, and she could hear sobbing and wailing, and instructions being shouted. She was shaking, shaking uncontrollably, but she couldn’t tell if it was from cold or from shock, or perhaps it was the effects of the alcohol and the Illyri air. Whatever, she didn’t trust her legs to hold her up.

Finally, she slid from her hiding place and slunk through the almost deserted ballroom to the cloakroom to fetch her wrap. The few folk who still milled around in here, far from the chaos at the wall, were too busy talking among themselves to be concerned with a bedraggled nobody, for the Illyri rumor mill had already started. Theories were fast becoming facts, and facts were becoming conspiracies; the apparently accidental and very unfortunate death of two drunk, foolish Novices would never be enough.

“What happened to you?” said the young officer in black and gold who had taken her cloak earlier, but he was distracted, peering over her shoulder to see what was happening.

“I got wet trying to help.”

“I see,” he said, handing over her yellow wrap without even looking at her. “It’s a tragedy, a real tragedy.”

Syl said nothing. She simply pulled the billowing layers around herself, grateful now that this old-fashioned cape was hers.

•  •  •

The return to Avila Minor was an unhappy one, for everywhere were stony-faced Sisters, and Novices weeping, and nobody paid any heed to Syl as she huddled in her cloak at the back of the third ship. As close friends of the deceased, Ani and the other Gifted had been instructed to travel with Oriel, and a smattering of the younger Red Sisters had been forced to take their places in this less opulent transport. They were surly and bitter, angry that their matchmaking chances had been thwarted by the stupidity of a pair of Novices. They ignored all those around them, Syl included, heedful only of their own perceived misfortune.

Syl was thankful for the solitude.

And so the arrival at the Marque was uneventful, and Syl was able to hang her wet dress away in her closet before Ani returned to their quarters. Yet Ani did not return that day, or the next. When she finally did, Syl had another shock: Ani was leaving her. Thona had instructed her to fetch her things and move into Dessa’s old room immediately. Henceforth, the Blue Novices would be kept together—together, and apart.

•  •  •

Following the twin tragedy at the Genesis Ball, the Marque went into a period of official mourning for the lost members of the Sisterhood. Everyone, from the Novices to the Gifted to the full Sisters, and even the Grandmage Oriel herself, was issued robes of navy blue, the color of grieving among the Nairenes. An ordinance of complete silence was imposed for a period of a week, which could only be broken to give an essential instruction, and all classes were halted. No words were spoken, no music played, no songs were hummed, and the only sounds were footfalls, the hushed turning of pages, and the silvery clinking of eating utensils, punctuated by the occasional cough or sob.

Syl simply stayed in her room for the first three days, staring out of the high window, missing the company of Ani but also mourning Dessa, loathing Dessa, deeply hurt that Dessa had tricked her, furious with herself for being tricked, alternating between desperate sadness and white-hot rage. She fretted over the stories Dessa had told her, about what was true and what was not, but ultimately it made no difference. She wondered if there was another way she could have handled things, if she
could have prevented two more deaths instead of taking two more lives. Finally, resigned, she wrote their names on her heart, beside the other deaths that she had caused, both directly and indirectly.

What am I?
she wondered.
What have I become?

When she did eventually emerge from her silent quarters, she briefly considered using the ubiquitous navy robes to her advantage to explore the Marque once more, but her scheme was thwarted because all realms were locked down for the period of mourning, and a constant guard was kept on the door to the Fourteenth.

Finally, inevitably, Syl was summoned by Oriel and cross-questioned about her part in the tragedy at the Genesis Ball, but she stuck to her story: she’d gone to the bathroom to be sick, she explained, for she’d overindulged in the free-flowing cremos, and when she had returned, Dessa, her new friend, was already dead. Syl even cried, and the tears were real.

Oriel watched her guardedly and her mind prodded at Syl’s, but her efforts were halfhearted.

“I do not believe you, Syl Hellais,” she said finally, “but you remain under the protection of Syrene. I can understand her reasoning, even while I loathe it, and distrust you. However, that protection is now more powerful still since you are to become her stepdaughter.”

Syl seemed about to object to the use of the word, but Oriel immediately silenced any dissent.

“You fool!” she said. “Do you still delude yourself that your feelings matter, that you have any sway here? Invitations have already been sent—it is as good as done. And I am reliably informed that the Archmage will deal with you in her own time, that she will bring you around just as she did your father, but for now nothing must cast a cloud over their coming nuptials. It seems that I must tolerate your presence in my hallways and classrooms for a while yet, but I take solace from the knowledge that it shall not be for much longer.”

She dismissed Syl with a flick of her wrist.

•  •  •

The next day the mourning period was lifted and classes resumed, although the Gifted did not reappear, for they were having classes alone.
Two days later, Oriel called a general meeting of all Novices—Gifted, Half-Sisters, and Yellow Novices alike—and they gathered nervously, wondering what was about to befall them. The fact that Oriel was smiling was of little comfort, for it was like watching the grimace of a predator. Syl spotted Ani up ahead, carried on a wave of Half-Sisters, but she couldn’t attract her attention.

Oriel stood to speak, and silence fell.

“My dear Nairenes in training,” she said. “After the devastating loss of our friends Uludess and Iria, it gives me much pleasure to make an announcement that should lift your spirits and swiftly move you all from grief to celebration.”

Hundreds of eyes stared back at her expectantly.

“I am pleased to announce that, following the period of mourning for her late husband, Consul Gradus, our beloved Archmage Syrene is finally to marry another.”

An excited whisper went through the hall. Who? they wondered. Who?

“The recipient of the Archmage’s hand in marriage is none other than Lord Andrus, respected and esteemed leader of the Military, and soon to be a father figure to you all.”

There was a stunned silence, followed by cheering, and the odd face turned toward Syl, for some vaguely recalled that the unpopular Earthborn child was Lord Andrus’s daughter, but it hadn’t mattered, not back then. Yet the only eyes that Syl would meet were Ani’s, for her friend had finally found her from across the room, and they looked at each other for a long time. Finally, Ani gave a troubled little grin, and Syl managed a tiny smile in response.

Oriel let the hubbub die down.

“And lastly,” she said, “I’m delighted to announce that you will all attend the wedding too, for the Nairene Sisterhood will host this grand event at the glorious palace of Erebos. Preparations will begin immediately. Long life to the couple! Long life to the Sisterhood!”

CHAPTER 63

P
aul set up a roster of watches for the journey to Illyr, with a particular focus on the weapons system. Without mines or torpedoes, they were solely reliant on the guns, and in the event of an attack Paul did not want their lives to be lost because someone fell asleep at the controls. He, Peris, Thula, and Rizzo alternated four-hour shifts, while Alis took responsibility for most of the piloting, allowing Steven to rest or take an occasional shift on the guns. Mostly, though, Steven preferred to stay in the cockpit with Alis, sometimes even sleeping in his chair when his duty ended. Thula found it all very amusing.

“If they have children,” he asked Paul, “just how biomechanical will they be?”

“I don’t think they’ve gotten that far yet,” said Paul. “At least, I very much hope not.”

It was, he had to admit, an unusual situation, one that he could say with some confidence had not arisen before. Officially, relationships between Illyri and artificial beings were expressly forbidden. Peris had conceded—under pressure from Thula—that unions between Mechs and Illyri had occurred in the past, even though they were generally discreet. However, he could recall no Illyri, male or female, having done more than admit to them in private, and then only among their closest friends.

But the growing intimacy between Steven and Alis, human and Mech, was the first of its kind—unless Meia had been engaging in some unusual behavior of her own back on Earth. What Paul saw developing between them was a source of concern to him. Alis might have looked like a young Illyri, but Peris, after talking with Tiray,
reckoned that she had been “activated” at least twenty-five years earlier. And aside from Thula’s observations about the difficulties any physical relationship might present, there was also the matter of aging to consider. What if, by some miracle, they did remain together? Steven would grow old, but Alis’s outward appearance would never change, not unless she took it upon herself to alter her ProGen skin to make herself look older, and frankly, Paul couldn’t imagine anyone—human, Illyri, or Mech—making that sacrifice.

But Paul also wondered to what degree Alis was using his brother to explore her own emotional capacities. Alis had probably been kept sheltered in Tiray’s service, protected from unnecessary contact with others for fear that her true nature might be discovered. It seemed incredible that she had managed to remain undetected for so long, but the deception could not have gone on indefinitely. Eventually, someone would have started to wonder why Councillor Tiray’s assistant never seemed to age. Perhaps some kind of cosmetic adjustments could have been made to her face to create the impression of aging, but ultimately that’s all it would be: an imitation. Now, far from Illyr, and forced into the company of a young human who was clearly attracted to her, she had been presented with an opportunity to develop new emotions to add to the ghosts that the Illyri believed already haunted her machine: affection, compassion.

Love.

It seemed to Paul that the relationship between Steven and Alis could only end one way, and it would not be well. But he said nothing, and kept his thoughts to himself. No good could come of interfering, and circumstances would decide their future, not him. It was, in the end, ridiculous to worry about his brother settling into a long-term relationship with Alis when the chances of survival for all of them appeared slim.

Again and again, thoughts of Steven and Alis brought him back to Syl. He had tried not to think of her too much during those long months in the Brigades because—although he hated to admit it—it broke his heart. But distance, and the apparent hopelessness of their situation, had given him some perspective on his feelings for her. He
realized that he loved Syl, and he did not want to resign himself to a life without her. Securing her release from the Marque had been a remote possibility for most of his time in service, but now events had taken an unexpected turn, to put it mildly, and he found himself on the way to the Illyr system, a galaxy from which non-Illyri were almost entirely excluded, especially those who served with the human Brigades. What had seemed virtually impossible just days earlier was now a reality: he would be within reach of Syl, and he had to seize that chance. Another such opportunity might never come along.

Paul did not even consider that Syl might refuse to leave if the chance presented itself. Yet it was all very well for him to talk of releasing Syl from her imprisonment on the Marque, but quite another thing to figure out a way that it might be achieved. Even Peris, who had a great deal of affection for Syl and did not want to see her trapped on Avila Manor any more than Paul did, could not conceive of a way to free her. The Marque had become less like a great storehouse of knowledge and more like a fortress as the Sisterhood strengthened their position in Illyri society. It would take a fleet of ships to mount a full assault, and they did not have a fleet at their command—they had only one vessel, and the Marque’s defense system would blow it to pieces before they even managed to knock on the door.

So Paul fretted about a solution while the crew followed the routine that he had set. They watched, they slept, they ate. They made their boosts, and Alis ran a diagnostics check before and after each one. The weaknesses in the hull remained, but they did not appear to be growing more serious. Not for the first time, they were all thankful for the
Nomad
’s advanced design, no matter who—or what—might have been responsible for it.

Only after they emerged from the third wormhole did they start to encounter other craft—cargo vessels, largely, although smaller ships were scattered among them, mostly headed for the final wormhole, so that the
Nomad
became part of a stream of traffic. But, clearly, too their emergence as an unregistered vessel had attracted attention, for they were not long out when the
Nomad
was hailed and asked to identify itself. They were fortunate that the first contact came in the
form of a Military patrol and not a vessel of the Diplomatic Corps or, worse, their Securitats. Once Peris had identified himself, and Tiray’s presence on board was confirmed, the first patrol ship was joined by a second, then a third, so that the
Nomad
entered the final wormhole at the heart of an arrowhead of craft. This was the Melos Passage, so named because it was not one single but four interconnected gateways, all funneling into the Illyri home system, and its shape corresponded to
Melos
, one of the symbols of the Illyri alphabet. Their escort even enabled them to skip the queue, for a backlog of craft waited to make the boost that would bring them close to Illyr.

It was Tiray who asked the reason for the huge number of ships.

“It’s the marriage ceremony, Councillor,” came the reply from the commander of the main escort ship.

“Marriage?” said Tiray. “What marriage?”

“Between Lord Andrus and the Archmage Syrene. The notification arrived only days ago, and they came through Melos yesterday. The ceremony is tomorrow morning. You’ll be just in time for it.”

Before they entered the wormhole, Steven turned and regarded his brother carefully. Paul nodded his understanding, for they shared the same thought: if Lord Andrus was marrying again, then surely his only daughter would have to be present, and if males were forbidden to enter the Marque, then the ceremony would have to be held elsewhere.

Paul’s grip tightened on his chair as they boosted, but for once it was not out of fear.

Hear me, Syl: I am coming for you.