The Phoenix in Flight (12 page)

“One moment,” Brandon interrupted gently. He paused then
continued. “Excuse me, the com from my brother has arrived at last.”

“Very well. We await confirmation of his plans.”

Brandon terminated the communication, but immediately the
console’s inhuman voice spoke, with the typical redundancy of machine
communications. “Holocom queue: from the Panarch Gelasaar hai-Arkad, recorded,
urgent, released 12-16-65 Standard en route to planet Lao Tse; from Krysarch
Galen ban-Arkad, recorded, urgent, released
12-13-65
Standard from
planet Talgarth.”

“Execute,” Brandon said.

Deralze said quickly, “Highness. Do you want to view these in
private?”

Brandon looked up from his bath, his gaze blue and cold.
“Why? These messages weren’t made in privacy.”

Surprise, anger, all dissolved when the holo of the Panarch
appeared before them. Deralze had not seen the man in person for twelve years,
and he had avoided him in image. The effect of the short, slim, and dapper
figure in his faultless white uniform, his silver beard neat, was profound.

A surreal sensation imbued Deralze with old memory and newer
words reviewed: always in the past the Panarch had reminded him of a sun,
remote yet benevolent, but also, like a sun, removed by unimaginable distance
from the affairs of individuals.

The Panarch gazed out at them through blue eyes very much
like Brandon’s. The back of Deralze's neck prickled and he was glad
he was still standing. Though this was only a holocom, and days old at that,
the effect of the Panarch’s presence was strong.

“Welcome, my son, to the ranks of those who serve.” The
Panarch’s lined face was transformed by a sudden smile, one of humor and
regret, that made the man look younger—emphasizing the resemblance to Brandon.

For a moment it seemed as if he really did look across time
and space to smile at his son, and again Deralze sustained that preternatural
tingle through his nerves.

“I will forbear making a long preachment. I expect you will
get your surfeit and more of well-meaning speeches today,” the Panarch went on.
“I wish I could be there. I wish tradition did not dictate that you must face
your peers alone. But so it is, and there is a reason for this tradition. This
may be the last time you are granted the precious rarity of time to reflect.”

Brandon’s mouth tightened.

“You will receive many gifts today, most of them costly and
some of them even useful. I will leave you with two intangibles. The first, the
words my mother spoke to me by holocom, on the eve of my own Enkainion: When
you stand before your peers to speak the vows of Service, remember the Phoenix,
ever consumed by the demands of Service, ever regenerate from the flames.
Remember also the Polarities of our ancestor Jaspar Arkad.”

Brandon shut his eyes. “What does he mean by that?”

“The second thing, from me, from my heart: remember my love,
and your mother’s love, which is eternal. I have faith in you, and so I hope to
tell you when we see one another before long.”

The holo winked out. Brandon stilled, unbreathing, then
tabbed the wall console with unnecessary violence, using his fist. “And what
did he mean by
that?
” He tabbed the console again. “Call through to
Steward Halkyn.” When the comm chimed, Brandon said, “Hal?”

“Sir?”

“My message to my father. Any update on when it might have
reached him?”

There was a brief pause. “No, sir. Best estimate is still on
or about the 16
^th
.”

“Thank you.” Brandon leaned over and pressed the cancel pad,
leaving his hand in place, his face pensive.

What was his message to his father?
Deralze wondered.
Had the Panarch not yet received it before composing the message just
delivered, or received and ignored it? That would have been a significant
rebuke.

Brandon’s fingers tensed, the tendons standing out, then he
called up the next message in the queue.

Krysarch Galen appeared in holo, tall, thin, and dark-eyed.
There was tension in Galen’s high brow, though his smile was gentle.

“Brandy,” Galen said, “I hope you enjoy your Enkainion. My
own was filled with music and poetry—”

“I remember your Enkainion,” Brandon muttered. “And what it
was full of.”

“—though nothing was as splendid as the sunbird you and I
used to try to catch out in the sequoia gardens. Remember that?” He shifted
position a little, to a more formal pose, and Deralze’s interest sharpened.
A
code, that about the sunbird. Both Galen and Brandon expect Semion to view this
holo himself. I wonder who the sunbird is?

“I composed a poem for you, a ghazal in five couplets.”
Galen’s long hand, so much like Brandon’s, flashed up in a poetic gesture as
though Brandon needed to count the fingers.

At first Deralze concentrated closely for key words or
phrases, until distracted by Galen’s fingers flickering as he touched his
chest. Fingers. Deralze remembered the hand codes that some Douloi used, mostly
the older generation.
The young consider it rude
, Deralze had been told
during one of his many briefings on Tetrad Centrum Douloi manners.
It was
popular during the days when court was expected to know a lot of poetry, and
most of the codes were just signals about each other.

The poem was ending. Galen’s hand stretched out in appeal.
“... in closing, my best wishes to you today, and I hope we will see one
another soon.” The holo winked out.

Deralze exhaled slowly.
Galen and Brandon use the hand
code. Why? Galen would know that Semion would see this, so I will wager
anything there has to be double meaning for every gesture. Which means they
must have had their own code as boys.

That directly contradicted what the recruiter for the Poets
had said: “Galen is sequestered by Semion against his will, with the full
support of Brandon, who intends to take his place as Galen is forgotten.”

What really happened at Galen’s Enkainion? Deralze wondered
as Brandon walked into the spacious wardrobe.

Deralze followed slowly. He and the other Poets were risking
their lives to put Galen on the throne.
Semion’s death promised, a coin more
precious than mere gold, and Brandon to die for the greater good. So why did
the contact lie?

“Let’s end this,” Brandon said, and Deralze looked up
sharply.

But Brandon did not see. He said, “Holocom to Krysarch Galen
on Talgarth... Wait...
N-no...
cancel. I’ll call him when she’s
free.”

“She?”

“That would be the best surprise, and if he doesn’t know,
Semion can’t—”

His assumptions smashed, Deralze waited as Brandon once more
struck the wall console with his fist. “First, let’s hear what my beloved
brother has to say. You remember Semion?” Deralze had never heard that
bitterness before. He would not have recognized Brandon’s voice.

Brandon met Deralze’s gaze across the width of the wardrobe,
and said, “You and Markham disappeared, Deralze, and Semion won yet again. But
it’s taken me ten years to figure out that I can’t fight him within the system,
so I have to do it from without...
Except—” He stared at the holopad
where his father’s image had stood. “Is the system worth saving, Deralze?”

“Is the system worth saving?” That decision is out of
your hands, Krysarch,
Deralze thought, and for the first time, the
inexorable weight of the justice he’d actively worked for pressed on him.
Not
justice. Vengeance—
Vengeance? Where had he heard that, as a title—

Again he saw that tall, cruel-faced young man called Anaris,
son of Eusabian of Dol’jhar, who had lived right here in the Mandala as a
hostage for some eighteen years. Deralze was thrown back to the day he met
Brandon, a weedy young teen, bruised and bandaged after the much bigger Anaris
had attacked Brandon, his intent to rape and then kill him, in accordance with
some Dol’jharian ritual.

You are not to refer to the incident in word or report
,
Deralze had been told by Meliarch Youssef, head of the Arkads’ personal
security detail.
This is by the Panarch’s own wish. Anaris is still to be
treated as one of the Panarch’s own sons. You will see to it that Anaris and
Brandon, if they meet, are never alone
.

Brandon had never referred to the incident, though the
bruises took weeks to heal. Deralze, who’d escaped the violence of his early
life by taking the Panarch’s coin and becoming a Marine, had not been able to
understand how these civilized Douloi could go on as if nothing had happened.

His feelings then had been as unsettled as they were now.
Brandon, too, seemed unsettled as he gazed at the splendid tunic and trousers
hanging next to the wall-mirror. The suit was royal Arkadic blue—with gold
stitching on collar, cuffs, and down the seams of the trousers. Jeweled
decorations lay on the low table below, along with Brandon’s elegantly plain
boswell, reflected darkly in the flawless obsidian surface. On another table
sat a pair of beautiful single-seamed boots.

Brandon stepped to the side of the mirror and touched a
control. The mirror slid silently into the wall, revealing rows of neatly hung
clothing ranging from formal to everyday. He flung aside the towel and pulled
out a plain shirt, a well-made tunic bare of decoration, and some dark
trousers, and tossed these on the table over the medals.

“Comm,” Brandon said. “Run the holocom from Semion. Freeze.”

He turned toward the slender inlay-patterned table by the
door. A miniature projection of the heir to the Panarchy appeared. Deralze
studied the hard face, well-shaped lips with sarcasm ingrained at the mouth
corners, the heavy-lidded blue eyes. An angry face. Semion looked older than
his mid-forties as he stood stiffly, his image frozen by the comm, the
decorations glittering on his formal black tunic.

“Proceed.” Brandon turned away as the image began speaking
and went on with his dressing, slowly, thoughtfully, one item at a time, as he
listened.

“Brandon, today you will make your formal entrance into the
Douloi, the Ranks of Service, embarking on what will be a lifetime of
commitment. I wish, of course, to congratulate you on your new status, and to
express the wish that you enjoy the festivities arranged in your honor. It is
not appropriate for any of us to be there...”

The irony in Semion’s voice caused Brandon’s chin to come
up. What was that about?

“... for you must face your peers alone. That is tradition.
However, I desired Vannis to be there as my representative. Perhaps you have
heard from her by now.”

Brandon gave Deralze a comical grimace. “There’s one I
haven’t heard from—Semion’s wife. I wonder to what I owe that stroke of luck.”

“You will no doubt be receiving a congratulatory message
from the Panarch our father. He has indicated to me in private communication
his pleasure that you have at last chosen to assume your responsibilities. I
understand you desire private audience: perhaps, after you have accustomed
yourself to the demands of your duties, a meeting will be arranged.”

Brandon’s mouth tightened, and Deralze thought,
Brandon
really is a prisoner. The messages to his father, everything, goes through
Semion. The question is, does the Panarch know it?

And an even deeper question,
How far does the plot really
extend?

Brandon went on with his dressing as Semion’s holo resumed
lecturing, “One way to gain his favor, and thus your interview, would be to
comply with our wishes and accompany Krysarchei Phaelia to your Enkainion,
signifying the approaching marriage. But you should have completed the treaty
weeks ago.”

Brandon laughed softly. He rummaged in a drawer, lifted out
some socks, then sat down and slowly pulled one on as his gaze remained on the
holocom of his brother’s face.

“I should like to add a word about your personal and private
life.”

“By all means!” Brandon waved the other sock in a regal
gesture.

“You must learn to keep your private and public lives
separate. Though our father made a romantic marriage, and we all regret the
demise of our mother, too many breaks in the careful structure of tradition is
dangerous, especially these days. We need this alliance with Inesset. I remind
you that you need never see Phaelia except on public occasions, and the demands
of your personal friends would be effectively silenced. Court expects to see
Vannis Scefi-Cartano with me when my duties permit me once again to attend
court functions...”

Deralze remembered the Aerenarch-consort, though he’d only
seen her half a dozen times.
Now there is a supreme fisher
.

“...as tradition decrees. My wife also serves as my
deputation at those public affairs that I cannot attend.

“My private life is confined to my private residence, which
effectively limits political fallout. It is vital, Brandon, that you perceive
the distinction for the reasons I just stated, but we will have the leisure to
discourse more fully on this subject when we see one another next.”

Brandon’s lips thinned.

“I await confirmation from you and Archonei Inesset. Have an
enjoyable evening.”

Brandon smiled faintly as the hologram disappeared. He
pulled on the expensive boots, then stood up to face Deralze. The humorless
smile tightening the corners of his mouth increased the resemblance between him
and Semion. Brandon must have seen something of Deralze’s reaction, for the
expression deepened for a second, then disappeared as he laughed ruefully. “I
trust you will favor me with the unvarnished truth with which you benefited me
ten years ago, and tell me whether you wish to take the money and run, or to
come with me.”

“To?” Deralze asked, his heart beating in his ears.

Brandon tipped his head. “I thought you knew that.”