An Abyss of Light (The Light Trilogy) (10 page)

“Adom and Ornias are too powerful! We’ve got to have help!”

“You did that without asking me?”

Rathanial’s mouth quivered. “I thought we’d already established I couldn’t get
any
messages to you, Zadok. Baruch was the only one who responded to my pleas for help.”

“I thought your order was nonviolent?”

“Sometimes violence is the only way to salvation.”

Zadok pursed his lips and gazed long at the stone floor. Baruch was wanted by every galactic official in the sector for his subversive activities. Rumor had it that the Magistrates had him bottled up tight in the Akiba system. He’d be risking not just himself but his entire army if he came. If the Magistrates found he’d left his troops alone, without his brilliant guidance, they’d surely attack, figuring his forces were critically weakened.

“Your daughter,” Rathanial said hesitantly, bringing the subject back, “was in the line of Ephraim.”

“Of course.”

Silence hung heavy in the dry cave air. Rathanial studied his wine, waiting. When Zadok said no more, he asked darkly, “How many women from the House of Ephraim are left in Gamant civilization?”

Still angry about Rathanial’s tugging Baruch away from his forces, he answered sharply, “My daughter, Sarah, and a sixth or seventh cousin, three times removed. There may be more, I don’t know.”

“A cousin?”

“Yes, I think she’s still on Horeb as a matter of fact. But I’m not—”

“What’s her name?”

Zadok shrugged. “I haven’t the vaguest idea. My father didn’t like that side of the family. He wouldn’t even let us write to them. ‘Savages and hoodlums,’ he called them.”

Rathanial’s gaze darted over the room as though running every name he could think of through his head. “Could it be—”

“Don’t even try. I wouldn’t recognize it if you said it.”

They held each other’s eyes pensively, Rathanial clearly worried and trying suddenly to hide it.

“Abba, I know I’ve angered you, and I’m sorry. But surely you can see I had no choice.”

“You should have come here before you contacted Baruch. You’ve placed all of us in a dangerous position. Without the Underground, we’re surely lost. And the best way to destroy the Underground is to get its leader killed.”

Rathanial nodded tensely, shame on his face. “I just couldn’t see any other way.”

“What’s done is done. However,” Zadok warned, leaning forward to point a stern finger, “you’d better protect him with every resource you’ve got. If I find you’ve left him open for assassination—”

“I—I won’t. I’ve guaranteed him the best security I can provide.”

Zadok slouched roughly in his chair and crossed his legs at the ankles, glaring at the far wall to relieve some of his frustration. “Is there anything else you need?”

“Just one thing.”

“What is it?”

“I know it’s a bad time. I know you’re needed here, but you must come and test Tartarus immediately. Before it’s too late and we find he’s the Antimashiah of prophecy. We can’t allow—”

“That’s another thing. What makes you think he’ll submit to my testing?”

“Because he must to maintain the faith of his followers. You’re the leader of Gamant civilization and if you challenge him to undergo it, he’ll have to.”

“Yes, yes,” Zadok murmured exhaustedly. “Pressure might work.” He poured himself another glass of wine and gulped a mouthful, wiping his lips with the cuff of his sleeve. The drink had a strong resinous flavor. “Let me get things settled here. I have to meet Yosef at the space-port and take care of … the funeral. Plus we’ll need to wait for Baruch. Then I’ll go back to Horeb with you.”

“Thank you,” Rathanial said in desperate gratitude, closing his eyes for a moment. “Thank you, Abba.” He finished his wine quickly and stood, uneasily bending to give Zadok’s cheek a quick kiss before he strode to the door. “I’ll pack my things in preparation for our journey.”

Zadok nodded tiredly and listened to his heavy steps thudding down the winding maze of corridors.

Lifting his goblet, he swirled the liquid, watching the delicate maroon waves that washed the pewter. An ache expanded in his chest, as though the strands of destiny tugged tightly around him. He’d known Rathanial for a hundred years, yet he’d never seen him so frightened, so out of control. Perhaps things were worse on Horeb than he’d said. Maybe that’s why he’d desperately summoned Baruch. Still, it enraged Zadok. He puffed a hostile breath and pounded a fist against his leg, trying to analyze the disturbing sequence of events: Horeb had flared into civil war under a new Mashiah who claimed to be the promised Deliverer; Rathanial had been unable to get any messages to him about it; Baruch was risking his neck to try and resolve the planet’s problems; and … Ezarin had been brutally murdered. Were the events connected?

Images of the terrible shadow returned. Zadok straightened in his chair, skin prickling. “An otherworld eavesdropper? Or maybe just your imagination, you old fool.”

He leaned his bald head against the gritty surface of the wall and stared longingly at the cinnamon ceiling. He felt as hollow and cold as the cave itself. “Think. The People need you to think.”

He ran memories through his head trying to correlate disparate events. Gamants had always been in trouble. Legends held that the talent for making enemies went as far back as ancient Earth where their distant ancestors had protected the Old Ways by going into hiding and killing anyone who threatened to expose them. The secret sect that resulted had flourished in ancient Abyssinia and Shoa. But the sect’s safety had dissolved during the first extraterrestrial invasion of Earth. Giclasian military governors had outlawed all “mystery cults,” as they called them, believing the sacred meetings to be treasonous strategy sessions. Different cultures and religions had been thrown together to increase internal human conflicts, and discourage alliances. Then they were forced to work exploiting the planet’s rich resources. Some were shipped off-world, families wantonly destroyed. War after war resulted and the Great Night of Glass ensued. Gamants began to forget the old teachings. Slowly, but surely, other philosophies tainted the original—or strengthened—depending on the way you looked at it. A thousand years later, when Edom Middoth raided Earth for his army of slaves, the Exile ripped the tradition asunder. After Jekutiel’s triumph, the people drifted apart, searching out other planets. Exiled factions remembered the myths, legends, and rituals differently—many only partly. They groped to pull the threads of their identity together and, in the process, blended with their neighbors, picking and choosing things from foreign traditions that sounded comfortingly familiar. No one knew anymore how much the current rituals resembled the originals. Not that it mattered to Zadok. Gamant culture may have mutated—
but it had survived.

His mind wandered, pausing here and there indiscriminantly until he lost his train of thought. Perhaps he was just too tired to think tonight. But how much time did he have? He shook his head wearily, lowering his chin to rest on his chest.

He sat in the cave long into the night, staring vacantly at the floor.

CHAPTER 6

Jeremiel crouched in the wet grass beneath a towering pine. The ice-bitten wind lanced his suit. He watched the lavender light of morning blush color into the dew drops sparkling on the brush around him, then turned his gaze to the caves below.

The right caves?
Pulling the map from his pocket, he checked it over and compared it with the surrounding terrain, pinpointing his location as best he could through the clutter of trees and peaks.
These must be Zadok’s caves.

But still he wasn’t certain, and to walk into an unknown camp would be suicidal. Puffing an exhausted breath, he let himself slump backward, sitting down in the wet vegetation so he could think. The pungent scent of damp pine duff tantalized his nose and he pulled in a deep breath.

“I have to be close.”

Rudy had dropped him three days’ journey from the caves, far enough away that hopefully no one would think it suspicious even if they noticed his descending jetpack. But the distance made following the map confusing. Kayan burst with deep valleys and high ridges, thick forests and dense underbrush. For the past day, he’d felt like he was playing a game of wits with mountain peaks.

Movement caught his eye and he leaned forward cautiously. Two men stepped out of the caves and into a small meadow. In the dim gray of dawn, he couldn’t make out their faces. Slipping his small pack from his shoulders, he pulled his noculars and focused in on the shorter man. His heart skipped a beat.
Zadok.
But who was the other? He could be a damned Magisterial ambassador for all Jeremiel knew. He couldn’t take the chance of exposing himself yet.

Zadok started off, leading the stranger down a grassy path which wound around the base of the mountain toward the capital city below. Quietly getting to his feet, Jeremiel weaved through the trees, following.

As he shadowed them, the wind brought him fragments of conversation. Discussions about Gamant politics, ethics, and history passed between the two. The tall white-haired man nodded obediently each time Zadok pointed his finger sharply.

When they reached the street leading into the city, Jeremiel waited, huddling in a thickly wooded area above the spaceport. He watched Zadok hesitate at the door outside, waving his ancient arms wildly.

“Damn it, Zadok,” he whispered. “Don’t go inside. You’ll be a sitting duck if anyone wants to murder you.”

Jeremiel’s tension grew as he studied Zadok’s pacing and the white-haired man’s pleading gestures. “Don’t do it!”

Finally, Zadok threw up his hands and entered the port, followed by the stranger. Jeremiel shook his head. Zadok, the old war-horse, had let himself be talked into going into a crowded government center where he couldn’t run easily? It didn’t make any sense. What’s more, it set an alarm to ringing inside Jeremiel’s stomach. The Magistrates were very clever. They could be using Zadok as bait—to lure
him
into that damned building.

He crouched in the brush and surveyed the building thoroughly. Soldiers lurked at every entrance, but they didn’t seem to be part of the specialty squads. They strolled around carelessly, talking loudly to each other. “Poorly trained. They’re probably part of the planetary personnel.” Everyone knew Kayan’s military installations were largely filled with clerks and accountants.

But you could never be sure with the Magistrates.
They might have moved in a clandestine services branch within the past week. Hell, for all he knew there could be a cruiser in orbit right now.

He glanced uneasily at the cerulean sky and backed deeper into the wet brush.

The Magistrates were an enigma to most species in the galaxy. All four were Giclasian and possessed extraordinary skills at manipulation and organization. Their violent natures were legendary. Over two millennia before, boasting that they sought to unite the galaxy by establishing a communal economic structure, Giclas had swept planetary systems in huge fleets, killing anyone who didn’t agree. Then they’d forcibly formed the Union of Solar Systems and set themselves up as rulers, protecting the citizens, seeing to the exploitation and redistribution of the Union’s resources. It turned out they were so good at it, most planets didn’t even mind being bilked for all they were worth. Gamants, however, were different. In the early days, before the Magistrates perfected their methods of exploitation, they’d watched their rich planet raped to the point of devastation. Revolt had stirred. Gamants demanded the right to manage their own resources. The Magistrates refused and Gamants had organized a secret military to penetrate and sabotage Magisterial installations. After the Exile, they’d been crushed several times on dozens of different worlds. It had taken centuries, but Gamants had finally won on the plains of Lysomia—and effectively been cast out of the Union. Though the treaty stated that Gamants were still “Citizens of the Galaxy” and subject to certain governmental laws and policies, they were left largely alone. Or deliberately isolated, depending on your perspective. Trade routes were cut off, trading partners threatened or mentally “corrected,” until Gamant planets stood as lonely isles in the Union. The situation had heated up recently when the government exercised its right to establish “peaceful” military installations on Gamant planets and to negotiate for the right to “school” Gamant children.

Everyone knew what happened in the schools.
The Magistrates had begun a devastating program to kill Gamant culture from within the brain. And the military bases protected the process if anyone objected.

Jeremiel shifted position, leaning forward to watch the guards who had left the front doors to gather on the landing field. “God damn, if we could just kill their power base.”

Palaia Station was the key. It had been established to house government personnel and energy resources, but no outsider had ever been able to penetrate its veil of secrecy. Formed of an infinite series of electromagnetic shells, the place was an impregnable fortress. Jeremiel had tried to break in a hundred times, but to no avail. The man who could crack Palaia’s secret would rule the galaxy.

Anxiously examining the port, he got to his feet and moved closer, to the very edge of the forest. His skin prickled with a feeling of danger.