Resolution (46 page)

A doorshimmer sparkled, white and silver; then a Lady stepped through.

Destiny.

A Lady formed of living crystal.

A blue cape was draped around her shoulders; the rest of her feminine form stood revealed in flawless diamond perfection. Her voice was a song more than words, beyond sound.

—
You are most welcome in this place, Thomas Corcorigan.

A tear coalesced in Tom’s eye. ‘I don’t deserve to be here.’

Microstructures danced with vermilion light inside her, washed with violet and cobalt and fiery scarlet. —
Your form belongs in this place.

Tom did not understand, but he could not question her. He was in awe. Tom was a child; he was thirty-six Standard Years old.

What happened next he could never clearly recall, for the Lady sang her questions in tones which would melt a statue’s heart, and his soul responded without words, honest in its faults, without embarrassment before the purity of her regard. Almost incidentally, he learned - somehow - that Sentinel would be cared for until it was safe to release him.

Then the Lady was gone.

It took a while for the realization to sink in; then Tom dropped to the flagstones with a whooping sob of regret and pain and old wounds and the dirty, scratching knowledge of unworthiness.

He was sobbing like a child when the Kobolds came to fetch him.

At the platform where the sluglev train stood waiting, the Kobold platoon saluted Tom, fists to foreheads. One-handed, Tom returned his version of the gesture.

‘You have allies now’ - their officer’s bluestone face was craggy, hard with experience - ‘my Lord Corcorigan. Both Viscount Trevalkin and
pak tsz sin
Zhao-ji will obey your orders. They are already journeying back to their respective bases.’

‘Yes,’ said Tom, not questioning how the Kobolds had established this.

‘This crystal’ - blue, square-ended fingers held out a violet dodecahedron - ‘allows you to contact the Grey Shadows
in extremis.’

There was a warning in the Kobold’s voice, and a question.

‘I would die, sooner than betray her.’ Tom accepted the crystal.

The Kobold warriors bowed.

‘Fate go with you, Lord.’

Some ten minutes later, Tom was riding the otherwise empty train along deserted tunnels, wondering what had occurred. Had he been dazzled and manipulated? Or had he gained an ally greater than the Grey Shadows or any human organization?

And what kind of being was the Crystal Lady?

It was hard to imagine that she might represent a presence that predated humankind’s arrival in this world, or that she somehow reflected the will of Nulapeiron itself.

Destiny. What other hope is there?

Perhaps there was none, besides the ability to stare unflinchingly at overwhelming odds, and the determination never to back down or betray a sign of weakness, in conditions where giving way meant death.

~ * ~

30

NULAPEIRON AD 3426

It should have been the second Corcorigan Demesne. Instead, it was Elva’s original family name which designated this place: Realm Strelsthorm.

I
shouldn‘t have waited so long to come here.

As Tom’s jade-shelled levanquin passed along luminous halls and broadways, he saw how the populace, both freedfolk and servitors, stared at the strange noble who was visiting them: with curiosity, not fear. That told him all he needed to know about the openness of conditions here. It highlighted one simple joyful fact: the Anomaly held no dominion in the realm where Lady Elva Strelsthorm-Corcorigan ruled.

Masked children chased each other, laughing, across an aqueduct. Bright sashes were draped across millennium-old statues of the Founding Lords. Perched on a high gargoyle, a black neko-feline gazed down on Tom and blinked her lazy oceanic eyes.

As Tom’s floating levanquin passed into an Outer Court, two squadrons of Chevaliers sprang to attention, then bowed. Tom stepped down, and the Chevaliers escorted him on foot to a marble waiting-hall. The hall was adorned with woven platinum drapes and drifting airplants, which trailed tantalizing scents on their graceful meanderings.

‘Her Ladyship is conducting formal audience, my Lord, with Ambassador Lord Khaliran and others. We’ll take you straight—’

‘I don’t think’ - Tom looked down at his travel-stained clothes - ‘I’m dressed for the occasion.’

The officer scarcely blinked.

‘No problem, sir. Give me a moment.’

Ten minutes later, clad only in training-tights, Tom was being fitted for a formal tunic by one Ferdinar Twilbodin, an angular, ebony-skinned alpha servitor, whose twittering and fussing almost concealed the precision with which he executed his craft. ‘For most, it is the clothes who wear the man. But for you, my Lord, it is most certainly the man who wears the—’

‘Yes, all right,’ said Tom.

‘Hmmph. Well, if I might suggest the additional golden pleats—’

Tom frowned.

‘—will of course
not
be required. You two’ - Ferdinar Twilbodin gestured to a pair of helpers standing by with handheld smartfabric-configuration modules - ‘will get on with this at once.’

The Chevaliers had left, but they had been replaced by Adam Gervicort. Now he stood leaning beneath a holoportrait of the late Chancellor Xalteron (whose ethical calculus still survived, and was taught at the Sorites School). Adam gave a short, ironic laugh.

‘Old Ferdie here is the best smartfabric designer around.’

‘Well thank you, I suppose, Captain Gervicort.’

Since Adam had become Realm Strelsthorm’s chief of security, he had bulked up a little, but from the gauntness of his face it appeared the additional mass was lean muscle. ‘Ferdie programmed the Chevaliers’ chameleoflage to perfection.’

‘Shame I couldn’t redesign those hideous control-cabin interiors. Simply eyesores ... Right, good.’ Ferdinar Twilbodin snapped his fingers, and his two helpers removed sections of fabric which had been draped around Tom. ‘We’ll just be a short while.’

Carrying the fabric carefully on their forearms, the assistants left the chamber with Ferdinar Twilbodin, and the exit vitrified behind them. Tom picked up his old and somewhat shabby tunic, and pulled it on.

‘There was a man just like Ferdie,’ said Adam, ‘in my battalion in Dilvin Secteur. His name was Libron.’