The Navigator of Rhada (15 page)

Early the previous evening, he had watched from the high terraces of Tran’s quarters in the city as five starships carrying the first elements of Vegan warmen departed the city for Aurora. At least, Tran had said Aurora was their destination; but it seemed quite likely to Karston, after two weeks of Tran’s suppressive “hospitality,” that the Vegans were bound for Gonlan. A division of Vegans and thirty regiments of Vyk Imperials seemed far too powerful a force for the task of peace-keeping on Aurora, while a Veg division--properly deployed--could very easily hold Gonlan after the departure of most of the Gonlani-Rhad troops for Aurora.

Karston felt an unwilling admiration for Veg Tran in this situation. He was wagering everything on one bold evolution: to hold Gonlan as a base, to interpose himself between the Aurorans and the Gonlani-Rhad and violate an enclave of the Order to obtain the ultimate weapons. If all his moves succeeded, and there was no reason to suppose that they would fail now, this gilded gathering of popinjay courtiers floating on the sunlit waters of the East River would very soon be bowing to a new,
de facto
Galacton.

Tran was stepping on board the barge now, and Karston followed him. There was a stir among the limpid courtiers as a young man in ornate harness came forward. Karston had an impression at first only of elaborately curled hair and beard and almond-shaped blue eyes outlined in cobalt make-up. A golden circlet bearing the Imperial sunburst of the Empire gleamed in the morning brightness.

This, then, was Torquas the Poet. Portraiture had never reached a high degree of perfection in the Second Empire, and the ancient science of “photography” remained one of the lesser mysteries. Thus it was that the only likeness of the Galacton Karston of Gonlan had ever seen was the relief profile of the Vyk face etched into the Imperial coinage.

Tran was addressing the young ruler in military, almost brusque tones. He used the familiar Vegan title of “Leader” rather than the more formal “King.” This in itself was a measure of his contempt for the present head of the House of Vyka.

The women of the Galacton’s group had gathered, and more than a few of them were eying Karston’s massive physique with interest. And Karston, young and a Rhad, had let his attention be diverted from the face and figure of the richly caparisoned Vyk, to whom Tran was presenting him.

Karston now gave his attention to the proprieties and drew himself up to salute the ruler of the Second Empire.

His mouth dropped open, and the blood drained from his face. He felt the impact of an impossible, improbable shock in his knees and elbows. For one ghastly moment he thought he might actually stumble and fall.

He was looking into the face of his bond-brother Kynan. Kynan the Navigator. The
priest.
Kynan the
foundling
--

He fought back an impulse to cry out, to deny the evidence of his own eyes. What he saw, what stood there before him, was blatantly,
obviously
impossible. Yet it was so. Kynan.
Kynan
to the
life.

The young Galacton was regarding him with an expression of languid perplexity, a half smile on his made-up lips.

Karston took a firmer grip on himself and made an unbelieving obeisance. He glanced at General Tran, but the older man showed no expression other than one of impatient contempt. He thought, Karston realized with great clarity, that meeting the ruler of the known galaxy was overpowering a simple Rim-worlder’s breeding and manners. He didn’t
know
--

“I am sorry you haven’t had time to sample the enjoyments of our court, Karston of Gonlan. Perhaps on your return you’ll join us here in Nyor--” The Galacton was speaking, making the sort of polite conversation one might expect from a great king to one of his lesser nobles. Karston studied the astonishingly familiar face. Identical. But for the long hair and the perfumed beard and the painted eyes and mouth, it was his bond-brother Kynan who stood before him. There could be no mistake.

Kynan, he thought, shaken--twin brother to Torquas, Galacton, descendant of a hundred royal Vyks--heir to mighty Glamiss himself. It was staggering, dismaying-- but there could be no other explanation.

Karston was dynast enough to know what a disaster for a royal house the birth of twin sons could be. For the most royal house of all, such an event could be catastrophic: raising the specter of wars of the succession, civil strife with each faction claiming a royal prince as their own and legitimate heir to the Imperium.

What better solution, then, to choose one son to bear the name and titles and to spirit the other away to the end of the sky to be raised in harmless obscurity?

But who could have been entrusted with such a task?

Who could have the power to take a newborn from a royal queen and deliver him, in time, to the house of a petty noble on the rim of the known world--and thence to Algol Two, to the cowled men of the Theocracy?

Only the Navigators. Only they--

With a sudden insight that was like a revelation, Karston realized that he possessed information worth infinitely more than the overlordship of the Gonlani-Rhad.

What he had this moment discovered was something that could truly shake the Trans and Torquases and Grand Masters, could shake the very foundations of the Empire--

He wondered if Kynan knew, and the answer came swiftly and surely. Kynan had no inkling of his origins. Kynan was a priest, a Navigator, nothing more, a man content to spend his life piloting starships and spreading the faith of the Star amid the heathen.

Standing on the deck of the Imperial barge, face to face with the ruler of his world, Karston of Gonlan had to suppress the wild impulse to shout with laughter.

General Veg Tran was regarding him speculatively. Oh, no, Tran, Karston thought.
Perhaps you may be allowed to know, but only when--
and
if--it profits me, Karston, star king of the Gonlani-Rhad.
And now, who could say how much more?

The formal meeting was swiftly concluded, and Karston, hardly remembering how or what he said, took his leave of Torquas and his court. As he returned to the cutter and watched Tran in final, whispered consultations with the Galacton, Karston had difficulty containing his excitement. He looked across the water to the starships. The embarkation of Vyk troops was nearly complete. Only moments ago he, Karston, had come across the waters of the river downcast and half frightened of the forces to which he had committed his fortunes.

Now, oh
now,
the game looked far, far more appealing.
I thank you, dear brother,
he thought savagely.
I
thank you, wherever you are.

When Kynan opened his eyes, he saw Janessa, her head haloed by the glowing light in the overhead. Behind her, the Navigator could see the concerned face of Baltus the warlock. Somewhere in the compartment, Brother Evart crouched in the shadows; Kynan could hear him reciting the Prayer for Absolution.

Kynan spoke with difficulty. “I’m not dead yet, Evart,” he said.

The junior priest was upon him in an instant, all shining eyes and flapping black clericals.
“Gloria! Gloria stella!
Emeric has interceded! Praise God! We were helpless, Nav!” Evart exclaimed tremulously. “We had no idea what sickness had struck you down--”

Kynan closed his eyes to ease the throbbing ache in his head. He felt Janessa touch his brow with a cool hand. “Where are we now, Evart?” he asked.

“We have just sung the position, Nav Kynan. We are four hours from planetfall.”

Kynan nodded wearily. “Go back to your post. I will be on the bridge before it is time to orbit.”

“Yes, Nav Kynan, I’ll do as you command.” Evart gathered himself and moved to the doorway. Standing at the scuttle, he turned and said, “The novices will offer ten
Aves
and a
Pater
for your recovery, Nav.”

“My thanks,” Kynan said patiently. “Now stay at your post, brother.”

The junior priest made an expansive sign of the Star and murmured,
“Mea culpa,
First Pilot.”

Weak as he was, Kynan winced at the breach of dogma. A Navigator was never called “First Pilot” before unconsecrated persons. But in Evart’s nervous state, such fumbles should probably be forgiven.

The warlock came forward and studied the Navigator’s pale face. “I’ve never seen anyone taken as you were, Nav Kynan. Has anything like this ever happened before?” Kynan shook his head on the pillow.

“It must be the effects of the Vulk’s mind-touch. Perhaps it is hazardous without a complete Triad.”

Kynan essayed a smile. The warlock was like all of his kind--a questioner. “It was written by Talvas the Inquisitor, Baltus--’Seek not
why,
or
how.’
“

The warlock smiled back at the priest in silent conspiracy. “That was long ago, Nav Kynan. You don’t believe it any more than I do.”

Kynan tried to frown. “Take your heresies out of here. I’m well enough now.”

The warlock said, “I’ll go comfort that old witch of a mare. She almost clawed us when we took you from the stable.” He inclined his head in polite withdrawal. “But we’ll still have to find out what caused your attack, won’t we? It could happen again--under more trying circumstances. I’ll leave you with that thought.”

That thought, in fact, had been troubling Kynan more than he would have cared to say. Suppose he was stricken while piloting the starship? Or before the seniors of the sanctuary? What then? Almost without volition, his hand tightened on Janessa’s.

“I was frightened, Kynan,” she said softly.

“And so was I,” he said candidly. “I still am.”

“Was it because of the mind-touch?”

“I don’t know. It seemed more than that. As though there were something
here
inside my head.” He pressed his fingers into his dark, cropped hair. He drew a shuddering breath. “Dreams, Janessa.
Such
dreams--” He despaired of ever being able to express to anyone the wild visions he had experienced. “I was a king--no,
the
king. And I saw--the universe--everything--all of space and time. Galaxies were like toys--” He broke off because the frightened expression on the girl’s face told him that his words were poor things to tell of what he had dreamed. He could only say, “I think one day we shall find that things are not as we believe them to be. I had a glimpse of that.” How could he express to her the insane urge to turn the ship and strike out across the empty parsecs for the galaxy’s middle marches and Earth? What possible reason could he give for such a wild notion when there was none? Could
be
none?

“Kynan,” the girl said with surprising understanding, “you are deeply troubled now.”

“I am, Janessa.” The Navigator frowned. “I don’t know how to express it well--but it is as though I am not my own master any longer.” He broke off because that didn’t say exactly what he wanted to convey to Janessa. “I have been a Navigator and before that a junior and a novice. In one way, I’ve
never
been my own master. I have always served the Order and the Empire. But I have always been a free man, a Navigator, and a citizen of the Empire--in that order. Now, somehow, I no longer feel free--” He shook his head in exasperation. “How can I make you understand something I don’t understand myself.”

“Perhaps I do understand,” Janessa said, “a little. We are all like chips caught in a current. Something is moving us along, and we don’t really know what it is. I feel that, too.”

He smiled at the girl. He had misjudged her intelligence and sensitivity, that was plain. “I have this insane notion that we should be going to Earth and not to Aurora at all. Can you understand that?”

“No. But if it is what you think we must do, then we shall do it.”

Kynan shook his head. “That’s part of what I mean.
I
know--the part of me that is
me
--knows that we must stop LaRoss and Crespus before they attack your people. This other thing
here
”--he pressed his forehead again-- “is what plagues me with dreams of going to Earth and being a king--” He stopped, aghast at what he had put into words. “There, you see? By the holy Star, I think I may be going mad!” What he did
not
say was that the impulse was strongest when Janessa was near him. Insanity.

Janessa said slowly, carefully, “And be a
king,
Kynan?”

“I tell you I must be losing my mind. That’s evidence enough, isn’t it?”

“It is the Vulk that’s put such ideas into your head,” Janessa said with feeling.

Kynan shook his head.

“They’re wicked creatures, Kynan. All people know that.”

“All
Aurorans
know it,” he said. “And they are wrong.” His tone permitted no argument, and the girl remained silent, chastised for her racial prejudice. “We are all children of God, Janessa,” he said to her sternly, very much the clergyman now.

“Yes, Nav Kynan,” she said humbly.

“I don’t expect you to believe that all at once. But you will.” He tightened his grip upon her blunt, strong hand. “Will you not?”

Janessa looked at him with shining eyes. “For you, Kynan,” she said boldly.

Kynan drew a deep breath and closed his eyes. His head still pained him, and there was a throbbing insistence behind his eyes.

“Shall we go to Earth, then?” the girl asked. “It is for you to say.”

Kynan’s longing was like hunger, like thirst. Earth. Nyor. The Mistress of the Skies. He shook his head and said, “We stay on course for Aurora.”

A silent voice seemed to shriek in his skull:
To Nyor, King, to Nyor
--
!

Janessa’s eyes widened with new fear as she saw the sweat beading the Navigator’s forehead. “Aurora,” he said again.

Kynan managed a grim smile of victory, for it
was
a victory, of some kind, over
something,
though he knew not what. He forced himself to think very clearly and slowly:
Whoever you are, whatever you are
--
you’ve lost. I am still a free man.