Treasure of Light (The Light Trilogy) (18 page)

“Sybil, don’t move!” Funk ordered sternly.

Hardly breathing, Rachel stared at the fragments of bodies lining the corridor. Blood flowed like a livid river. Stunned by the assassin’s words, terrified at what might come next, she stood rigidly, feet braced, pistol trembling in her hands. But no one else stepped into the gruesome corridor. Agonizingly, she waited.

“Rachel?” Yosef called. “Hurry, come inside. Rachel?”

A frail old hand twined in her tan sleeve, pulling her backward. “No, no, wait!” She jerked loose and ran forward, collecting every weapon in the hall, piling them in her left arm.

Then she backed up into the cabin. Dim silver light cascaded over her as she pounded the patch to close the door. Sybil ran forward and hugged her leg.

Yosef gazed at her worriedly. “Sit down, Rachel. I’ve locked your door. Let me call Jeremiel and find out what’s happening.”

“Yes. C-call him,” she whispered, but couldn’t convince herself to sit. Instead, she moved into the center of the room, gaze welded to the door, expecting another madman to burst through it at any moment.

He’d
told her to be armed.
He’d
warned her …

As the full truth dawned, reaction set in and she trembled uncontrollably.

“Rachel,” Ari said in a strong voice. “Give me those rifles. You sit down. I’ll guard the door.”

“No … I—I—”

“It’s all right. I’m good with guns.” He gripped the weapons, prying them from her rigid arm, then helped her to a chair where she sat down. Reluctantly, she put her pistol on the table beside her.

Sybil climbed into her lap and hugged her around the neck. “Mommy, who was shooting at you?”

“I don’t know.”
Someone who loved Adorn.
She clutched Sybil tightly to her breast, kissing her brown curls.

Sybil buried her face in Rachel’s long black hair. “I love you, Mom.”

Over the table, Yosef keyed in a sequence of numbers and called, “Jeremiel? It’s Yosef Calas. Are you in?”

Another voice came from the box, a voice Rachel vaguely recognized. “Yosef? This is Avel Harper. I’m afraid Jeremiel is out on urgent business. We’ve just had a series of murders on level six. Apparently the old Horebian civil war has been carried to the
Hoyer.
Did you get Rachel safely aboard?”

Yosef looked at her and a deep frown etched his face. “She’s safe, but I’m afraid we had similar problems. We were attacked by six men—I don’t know who they were. The hall outside her cabin is littered with dead. Please send a security team to guard this corridor.”

A brief pause ensued and Rachel heard Harper sigh tensely. “Immediately. Tell Rachel not to set foot outside her door until Jeremiel personally gives her authorization. Understand?”

Yosef looked at her and she nodded once. “We understand. Is there anything else we can do?”

“No. I suspect Jeremiel will be detained for a while. Why don’t you tell Rachel to get some sleep. I’m going to try to force Jeremiel to do the same thing before they meet. He’s weaving on his feet.”

“I think that’s a good idea. As soon as the security team arrives, Ari and I will meet you at his cabin. Perhaps together we can convince him.”

“I’ll welcome the help. Give my best to Rachel and Sybil. I’ll see you soon. Harper out.”

Yosef palmed the controls and Rachel gazed up at him numbly. Her body, so lit with the fires of adrenaline a few moments ago, had gone stiff and unfeeling as though it belonged to someone else.

“Sybil,” Yosef said gently, tugging at her brown curls. “Why don’t you fix her some soup?”

Sybil nodded, fear still widening her eyes. “Sure. All right.” She slid down from Rachel’s lap and ran to the dispenser on the wall, but her gaze stayed glued to her mother.

Silence settled like a leaden blanket over Rachel’s shoulders. Ari and Yosef grouped against the far wall, talking in low dread-filled tones. Her gaze drifted aimlessly. A small compact room, the bunk beds took up one entire wall at the back. Beside them, a desk with a computer terminal sat, cursor blinking rhythmically. She vaguely knew how to use computers. She’d run a few on Horeb. The table and two chairs dotted the floor near the entry.

Sybil pulled two cups from the dispenser on the wall and set them on the table, then went back and hit two more buttons.

“Wait till you try this, Mommy. Ari made me eat some about an hour ago. It’s good. It’ll make you feel better.”

A rich odor wafted from the cups on the table. Her hunger had vanished, but she lifted the cup anyway. “It’s delicious. What is it?”

“Ari said the Magistrates call it Orion mushroom soup.” Sybil looked at Funk and smiled lovingly before looking back. “Mushrooms are little plants that grow in the dark. I guess they grind them up and throw them in water to make the soup.”

Carefully, Sybil retrieved two more cups and carried them back to the table, spilling only a little before setting one in front of Rachel. She reached out and caressed her daughter’s olive cheek, seeing a scar beneath her left eyebrow. She shook her head. When had Sybil gotten that scar? Odd that she couldn’t remember. She knew Sybil’s body better than her own. She fought the welling anxiety by turning her attention to the new cup. “What’s this?”

“It’s just tea, but it tastes kind of like the greasy grass tea we used to make. Except this tastes more like dirt.”

Rachel tasted the concoction. It had a crystalline flavor as delicate and sweet as spun sugar. “Oh, it’s wonderful.”

Sybil pulled her chair so close to Rachel that when she sat down, her knees touched her mother’s. The stark light of the lustreglobes frosted her orange robe with silver, so that every time she moved, waves undulated visibly over her arms and chest.

“… too many refugees aboard,” she heard Funk whisper.

Calas responded, “Jeremiel can’t leave those people on a barren planet. The fire storms are consuming everything.”

Rachel tried to imagine what the capital city of Seir must look like. The crimson sandstone ridges must have melted into a smooth glassy sea of blood. Suddenly she felt hot and the scent of death stung her nostrils. Sounds from the holocaust in the square fluttered in her memory, people gasping, crying, an old man screaming madly, “Gamants, listen to me! I see a sea of blood rolling down over us! A sea of burning blood! Don’t you see it?” He’d lanced out a hand toward the mountains glimmering maroon with the flames of sunset. “Oh, dear God, dear God, we can’t escape!”

She bowed her head.
Prophecies did come true.

A buzz came from the black box near her door. “Mister Calas? This is Chris Janowitz. Are you in there?”

Yosef briskly walked across the room, palming the entry patch. The door snicked open and a short, stocky blond stood outside, face stern with apprehension. He looked inside at her and then back to Calas. “Any injuries?”

Yosef shook his head and gripped Janowitz’s sleeve, hauling him inside. “Just the men in the hall. Come in and meet Rachel Eloel and her daughter Sybil.”

Too tired to stand, she simply formed her hands into the sacred triangle of greeting. “Thank you for coming so quickly, Mister Janowitz.”

He nodded and returned the symbol of greeting. “I’m sorry we didn’t meet you in the bay, ma’am. We had no idea—”

“It’s all right. I understand things have been hectic here. Will you be guarding my door all night?”

“My team will. You rest easy, ma’am. They’ll be just outside.” He smiled reassuringly and exited into the hall.

Funk and Calas followed him. Before he closed the door, Yosef called, “Rachel, there are twenty guards in this corridor. Don’t worry. We’ll see you again soon.”

Funk winked confidently at Sybil and she winked in return.

“Good night, Yosef.”

He smiled paternally. “Good night.”

Her door slipped shut and she and Sybil studied each other. “I love you, baby.”

“I love you, Mom.”

As they finished eating, they stared at each other, basking in one another’s gaze, occasionally touching beneath the table to reassure themselves. Finally, when they’d finished, Rachel leaned her head back against the wall and smiled at Sybil. “You’re prettier than I remember.”

Sybil glowed beneath the praise. “Mom? I haven’t seen Jeremiel, but Ari talked to him on the ship’s com machine, and he said you’re a hero. He wants to give you a medal because you saved thousands of lives on Horeb when you killed the Mashiah.”

Rachel’s smile faded. Tears filled her eyes. She fought to blink them away before Sybil could see. “Does he?”

“Yes. I’m very proud of you, Mom. Me and everybody else.”

Fluttering images of Adom’s handsome face tormented her. Their last day together, he’d held her gently in the huge bed in the polar chambers, murmuring tenderly how much he loved her. His frail smile and wide blue eves had created a space all their own in her soul.
A medal? For murdering an innocent man?

All the weariness Rachel had been suppressing swelled to an incapacitating burden. “Sweetheart? I think I’m going to take a shower and go to bed. Would you sleep with me if I take the bottom bunk? I want to be able to hold you in my arms, like I used to, before the war.”

Sybil finished the last of her tea and jumped to the floor, running to turn down the gray blanket and white sheet beneath. She pulled her orange robe over her head and draped it over the foot of the bed, standing in her T-shirt and panties. “I’ve been dreaming about holding you, Mom. Maybe I’ll finally be able to sleep through the night. For the past few months, I haven’t slept very good.” She sat on the side of the bed, waiting eagerly.

Rachel pushed up from her chair and smiled, then began undressing, draping her jumpsuit across a chair, and removing the
Mea
from around her throat. She stared at it for a moment, noting its dull, lackluster appearance. Dead,
He’d
said.

Gently, she laid it on the table and walked into the bathroom.

Sybil watched her mother go and heard the water come on, sounding like the patter of rain, then she got up from the bunk and cautiously went to stand beside the necklace. It looked different, but she felt nearly sure it was the same necklace she’d had the
funny
dream about when she’d slept in the caves of the Desert Fathers on Horeb. She remembered talking to Avel Harper about it.

“Have you ever seen a necklace that looks like a lustreglobe, Avel?”

He’d given her a curious smile, mahogany face shining in the light of the fireplace. “No, but it sounds like the infamous
Mea.
Where did you hear about it?”

She hadn’t told him, because grown-ups always teased her about her “funny” dreams and made her feel stupid. She cocked her head, staring at the ball. She’d been a lot older in the dream. Her hair had grown long enough to hang to the waist of her ivory robe. The sounds of cannons and squealing rifles filled her ears and she could see the young man with curly black hair putting the
Mea
against his forehead. She’d pressed her forehead to the opposite side and they’d kissed. His lips had felt warm and soft, making her tingle deep inside. A golden man had floated up above them, whispering to Sybil. She remembered because his voice had made her head hurt real bad. And the necklace had glowed so brilliantly between them she’d had to close her eyes.

But this one didn’t glow.

Timidly, she extended a finger, tracing a wide circle on the table around the ball. After a few seconds, she got up enough courage to prod it gently. Still, nothing happened. Finally, she picked it up and—as in the dream—pressed it against her forehead while she thought about the young man.

A blue light flashed briefly. She jerked it away, startled.
But in the dream, the light had been good.
When she put the ball back against her forehead, the light flared in a constant flood, splashing the walls with such brilliance they changed from white to a pale glittering blue. And a soft, kind voice called her name.

“Oh!”

Frightened, Sybil dropped the ball back onto the table and ran to crawl beneath the covers of the bed, heart pounding. She stared wide-eyed at it, watching the light die again. In her dream, no one had spoken to her from the ball. And that voice had sounded a little like her dead father.

When her mother finally came out of the bathroom, drying her long black hair with a towel, a lump of fear had formed in Sybil’s throat.

“Mom? What’s that necklace?”

“Hmm?” She looked to where Sybil pointed. “Oh, it’s a … just a glass necklace, baby. I wish I didn’t own it. It reminds me of the Mashiah.” Her voice quivered with that last.

“It’s pretty.”

“I suppose it is.”

Sybil slid to the back of the bed and let her mother curl around her. She pulled the blanket up around her throat and clutched it tightly as she thought. Someday, she’d have her own
Mea
and, on a battlefield far away, she’d use it to stop a war. The dream had told her.

Sybil nervously crushed the blanket beneath her fingers. The warmth of her mother’s body felt good against hers, but she couldn’t sleep now. The scary voice had called her by her full name,
Sybilline.
Nobody had ever called her that in real life, except her father. And he only called her that when she’d done something bad.