Untitled (2 page)

Like Marilith, the stately old Vith trait of blue hair ran in his family as well. His hair and eyes were much darker blue than Marilith's, a deep azure that could often be mistaken for black. His hair was wavy and held bound in a tail, a usual standard for fashionable northern gentlemen in League Society.

And even though Davage was an Elder and Marilith was a Xaphan, they were both the still the same people—the Xaphans merely being Elders who had betrayed the League and became their enemy long ago. They both enjoyed the benefits of the ancient Gifts: lifelong youth, freedom from disease, and a series of powerful mental skills given to the tribe of Vith long ago. Davage and Marilith were both well over a hundred years old, yet they appeared young and healthy in the flower of their young adulthood. They were forever awash in the Gifts of the body and the mind—at least until one of them managed to kill the other.

Captain Davage also had that handsome Blanchefort face, those fine northern Vith features that so captivated ladies of standing all over the League. He was a bachelor, and his reluctance to take a bride, to make that lucky someone his countess, had been both a scandal and a source of endless gossip in League society for decades: Great House Lords certainly did not remain unmarried. They married, if not for love, then for politics, for the needs of the House for an heir were clear. Who was it to be, the ladies whispered? Who would finally be the one to capture his heart? Davage had no brothers, only two sisters, and the proud Blanchefort line hung, quite literally, in the balance, heirless—one well-placed shot from Marilith's guns could bring down the old Vith House for all time.

Who would win Davage's heart? He had remained frustratingly non-committal and sullen on the matter since the spectacular debacle of eighty years prior that was still the talk of the League, when he had in fact publically and proudly given his heart to that lucky someone after all … to Princess Marilith of Xandarr.

Facing off, the two of them hurled insults and threats at each other and eventually, they fought. Marilith blasted away at Davage with her cassagrain energy weapons, a Xaphan staple. Davage's mighty ship was unshielded save for thick armor plating, and her guns could melt it to slag with only a few well-placed hits. Marilith held nothing back; she fought to kill. Davage though, being an old master helmsman, was extremely hard to hit, the
Seeker
rolling, diving, and jinking in a confounding manner, while Marilith, stuck in whatever old Xaphan tub she could get her hands on, gnashed her teeth in rage and watched as her shots found nothing but empty space.

Captain Davage, a master of his craft, always ended up sinking Marilith in the end no matter what sort of foul trap she sprang. A canister and shot-riddled heap, the
Bloodsimple
spun out of control, decompressing, caving-in violently in a mass of twisted, blasted metal as battered lifeboats, and assorted fleeing craft blossomed into a flailing cloud around the doomed vessel.

Princess Marilith, a master of her craft, always eluded his grasp, always escaped the burning wreckage of her destroyed ship, and was always just out of his reach, escaping back to the shadows, ever ready to try and kill him again.

That was in public—that was the fiery, hate-filled, guns-smoking image they maintained.

In private, though, things could not have been more different.

With Marilith's vast family fortune affording her access to elaborate technology that could fool League Com channels, she often contacted him and there, all alone, they stared at each other over their respective screens, Marilith's face free of her fierce makeup and Davage with his hat off. They spoke kindly to each other—almost tenderly, each silently lamenting what might have once been.

How they once were nearly married in a grand ceremony, the event of the year—of the decade. It was a wedding that was meant to end the League-Xaphan conflict forever and bring the two sides together as one.

In the usual tradition common to both societies, the wedding baton had to pass from the end of the procession to the front, and when the bride and groom touched it simultaneously, they were wed. There were thousands of esteemed guests present for this wedding, this seminal event, and thousands of hands accepted the lovely jeweled baton, held it for a cheering moment, and then passed it to the next person. It had taken a while—it had gone literally miles—and was nearly to the front.

Then, the gasps, the manicured, jeweled hands coming to shocked open mouths as the baton stopped, was held fast in a shaking grip and then thrown to the floor where it hit with a musical, somewhat anticlimatic "
ding
."

The baton was stopped; it went no further. There would be no wedding.

Then there was confusion and outrage as Davage was dragged from the chapel … by his sister, she who refused to see him wed to a Xaphan monster.

And their respective fates were sealed.

* * * * *

So, now, here was Marilith, beautiful and alone, on his screen once again.

"Princess Marilith," Davage said, putting down a report in his office. The Com had said he had a message from Fleet, marked green.

"How are you, Dav?" she asked quietly, her beautiful face close to the flickering screen, a tiny, genuine smile on her lips. "It's good to see you." She backed away from the screen a little—a single veil wrapped around her otherwise nude body.

"Good to see you, too. I am fine—that was a particularly insidious trap you sprang at Hoban. You are an endlessly crafty person. Where did you get all those old ships from time and time again?"

Marilith smiled and looked at him hard. "Would you expect anything less of me? You know I can offer you no quarter … though I know that you will come through alive. I know there isn't a trap I can think up that you can't escape from … and I am happy for it."

They made small talk for a bit, chatting casually as if they were simply two close friends catching up—as if the last eighty years hadn't happened, as if the baton hitting the floor hadn't happened.

Then, after a bit, she closed her eyes and looked sad. She appeared to have something on her mind.

"I can see something is troubling you, Marilith. Out with it. You can tell me."

She took a deep breath. "I can divine the future. You know that, correct?"

"I did not. Is that a Xandarr Gift?"

"My family can do it sometimes. Sometimes I can interpret the future. I saw the future before our wedding … but I did not understand it."

"What did you see?"

"I saw a cloud … a thundercloud. I did not understand. Perhaps if I had I could have taken preventative steps. I could have … done something. I … so wanted to marry you."

Marilith paused and caught her breath, her eyes momentarily anguished.

She continued. "Something is searching for you, Dav," she said as matter-of-factly as she could. "I can feel it, and I am afraid for you. I fear you are in danger, and I wanted to warn you of that."

"Danger? What did you see?"

"In a dream I saw a figure, a terrible, lonely figure, sitting atop a tall mountain. There were impaled bodies struggling for life all around it. It gazed down from the heights, looking for you, Dav. I don't know what it is, but I saw it sure enough in the darkness. I pray you heed my warning and look to yourself. The figure was terrifying. It wants you. It waits for you."

"I see. You still dream of me, Marilith, even now?"

"I do, every night; I'm not afraid to admit that. Promise me you'll look to yourself."

"Look to myself, so that you can kill me later?"

"Yes … yes. Promise me you will be careful, please. Will you do that for me?"

"I will, Marilith, and thank you for thinking of me."

She put her hands on her screen, her blue eyes growing misty. "When next we meet, Dav, I pray you fight well … for I shall show you no mercy. I cannot … I cannot."

She wept.

Davage felt a pang cross his heart. He touched his screen where her hands were.

And the two wept, the mortal enemies … who loved each other still.

1

All of his life, Captain Davage, the Lord of Blanchefort, had been a pursued man. He was hunted and given no peace.

He ran, his tall Fleet boots rising and falling on ancient stone, through the splendid corridors and vast halls of the sturdy old castle. The Vith castle, located high in the mountains of the Kanan north, was huge. Here, within the cold hallways of his ancestral home, he had space to run and run. He could run all he wanted. He could run to exhaustion and still not reach the end.

As a boy, he'd run from his father—Sadric, Lord of Blanchefort. Sadric, well thought of and influential, was the consummate man about town, a diplomat, well-placed in League Society, and Sadric, the Society man, wanted his only son to learn the stern and exacting ways of League Society as well. Sadric chased his son through the hallways of the castle with a set of dress clothes and a fancy pair of stylish shoes, determined that he put them on. Davage ran from him, as if Death itself pursued.

Davage, for better or worse, was born into the House of Blanchefort. House Blanchefort was an ancient House, founded long ago in the time of the Elders from the fabled blue-haired Vith heroes of old. It was Lennybus, the Vith and original Blanchefort, who built the massive expanse of Castle Blanchefort, the place of endless halls and towering spires in the spiny mountains of the north. It was said he made it complex and confusing to keep the Demon of Magravine, his arch-enemy, from being able to locate him and exact vengeance. Lennybus also planted the Telmus Grove behind the castle, a huge orchard of mystical trees and Vith courtyards fed by ancient streams to keep out the giants. He was also said to be the first Blanchefort to be laid to rest atop Dead Hill—a mushroom-shaped hill in the Telmus Grove where all future Blancheforts, except those lost in distant battles, were entombed—though his particular vault had never been located.

The House of Blanchefort, like most modern Great Houses, maintained a Lord and a Countess. They designed their own regal clothing in a distinctive style, forged their own weapons, minted their own coins, and were generally expected to be trendsetters in Blue League social circles. The firearms they once designed were the prize of the League—the Blanchefort PtVa was a legendary pistol, the famous old "Poltava" being a template for many modern firearms, including the prolific Grenville 40, though no Grenville ever admitted that. Sadric, however, frowned upon the practice of producing firearms and eventually abolished it, turning the old weapons factories the villagers worked in into textile mills for creating fine Blanchefort fabrics.

The Lords of Blanchefort, accordingly, were expected to throw lavish parties, attend other Houses' parties, and generally be Blue— Blue being of Vith, Remnath, or Zenon heritage, the Viths being the "Bluest" of the lot.

And so there was Davage, a Blue Lord who really wanted nothing to do with parties and social circles and setting trends. He'd much rather go to ground in common clothes, see the world, travel the by-ways of Kana, and visit the stars.

Davage was a reluctant Lord who withered in the dainty shoes and the fine clothes he was expected to wear. He hated all of the Lords and Ladies who came to gawk at him, to poke and prod and see the next Lord of Blanchefort. The worst of all was Countess Hortensia of Monama, a mountain of a woman in a black gown who was said to have visions, the Monamas being a strange, black-eyed lot. "Oh," she gasped every time upon seeing him, which was frequent, for she was his father's personal seeress. "Something evil dreams of you even now, my boy. I am afraid for your soul."

What a horrid woman.

At first, to find refuge, Davage ran into the arms of his mother, Countess Hermilane, formerly of House Hanover. Davage had inherited much from his mother. He'd inherited her tall, lanky frame. He'd inherited her stately blue hair. He'd also inherited her restlessness, her spirit. His mother was once known for her quick temper and her able sword-hand. She was a lady of standing who was notorious for her knack of getting into and winning duels. How a powdered fop like Sadric survived to court a savage Black Widow like her was a real mystery. In later years, his mother taught Davage how to sword fight, a skill that eventually served him well.