"How could you love such a one as this? Compared to Sinoval, how could you love me? I had to prove myself worthy of you, my lady. I had to prove myself better than him, at anything, or at everything.... and the only way to do that was to defeat him."
She shook her head, trying to find the words. "You never...." she began, but then she coughed. "You never needed to...."
She suddenly blinked, and everything was gone. Kozorr, the altar, the room, the darkness. Everything was gone, save only her.
There was a column of light and a room of darkness. A soft shuffling noise could be heard, and the harsh rasping of hoarse breath. Her heart caught in her chest, and she let out an involuntary cry. She knew where she was.
"Forgiveness is a fine virtue, is it not?" whispered the hated voice she had heard every night in her dreams for years. "To forgive those who have wronged you, betrayed you."
"No," she whispered to herself, sinking to her knees and curling into a ball. "This is not real. You are dead. You are gone. You are...."
"I am always here. Whenever you close your eyes, whenever you dare to feel yourself safe.... I will be there, traitress. In the eyes of another, in the movements of one you love, or one you hate. You will look at others, and I will be in each and every one of them.
"And when you are alone.... look into the shadows. I will be there. I will never let you rest.... You have not yet learned my lesson, bitch.... and you will not be free of me until you have."
"No...." she whispered again. "What lesson? What did you teach me.... apart from pain and humiliation? What could you teach me?"
"What else?" he said. "You do not understand. I forgave you."
"No.... you didn't. If you did then.... then...." Enlightenment dawned. She opened her eyes and rose slowly. He was out there somewhere, shuffling in the darkness. "You did not forgive me, Kalain. You never did. You used the word as a weapon, bludgeoning me into a mass of pity and sorrow. You taught me how not to forgive someone, how to say the word but keep the bitterness and the hatred inside."
"You are learning. Maybe there is some intelligence inside that weak, less–than–animal brain of yours."
"I have been dreaming about you for two years, Kalain, and I have been hating you all that time. No longer. I forgive you, Kalain. Whatever your reasons, whatever your pain, it is over and done. I forgive you. Maybe that is nothing but a word, but I know this. I will never dream about you again."
"I think you will."
"No. You are wrong, but I do not hate you for it. I pity you. I am sorry for you. Goodbye."
Her pain faded, and she was where she had been. Kozorr was still kneeling on the floor in front of her, his head bowed. Gently, Kats held his pike out to him again. "Take it," she said softly. "It is yours."
He looked up, unshed tears in his eyes. "I am sorry," he said.
"I forgi...."
There was a burst of pain in her back and she fell with an anguished cry. Kozorr's pike slipped from her fingers as she fell.
"You should be more careful," said Tirivail, as she looked at Kozorr. "But then so should she."
There was a strange feeling in the air. Trace did not like it. He could not be sure exactly what was going to happen, but he could feel that things were changing. Something big was going down.
He didn't like that. In his younger days he had liked the feel of Change sweeping the world. It had provided plenty of opportunities for someone with the will and the ambition. Now.... he was content, for the time being. It was a time for consolidation, gradually strengthening his empire, and setting things in motion for the future. Change would disrupt that.
He had been in a bad mood all day, unable to shake this feeling. His patron had not been in touch with him for days. Allan had sent word that someone had arranged for the murder charges against Smith to be dropped. That would take a lot of influence. Maybe even as far as Welles himself.
Actually, that did not bother Trace so much. He had been using corruption as a weapon for so long it would be a little hypocritical to complain when it was used against him. Besides, Smith had just.... put off the inevitable. Nothing more. He had swapped an easy and comfortable twenty years or so in jail for a very difficult and uncomfortable few days in a dark room and an unmarked grave in a construction site.
Well, that was, as soon as he showed up. Smith was in hiding at the moment, but that wouldn't last forever. Trace had men out looking for him. Smith had killed Nelson, and that wasn't the sort of thing that could be forgiven.
And of course, where Smith was, you would find that knock–out telepath hanging around with him. She was worth a fortune all by herself.
Trace rose to his feet and walked to the window. The air inside the dome seemed to be crackling. He could see people milling about on the streets, uncertain and nervous. They could sense something was going to happen as well. Even the ignorant, blind, stupid sheep who inhabited Sector 301 could feel that something was wrong.
There was a knock at his door. "Go away!" he snapped irritably. He didn't feel like company.
Instead, the door opened. Trace turned angrily. It was Roberts, who was jostling to take Nelson's place as right–hand man. Based on his natural skills and charisma, he had a long way to go.
"I told you to go away."
"There's someone wants to have a word," Roberts replied. "She said it was important."
"Well, it can wait."
"Beggin' pardon, boss. You'll want to hear this."
Trace sighed, and then pondered for a moment. Something was going to happen. This could be it. "Send her in. Oh, and Roberts.... if I didn't want to hear this, I'll expect your kneecaps in the post tomorrow, understand?"
"You'll want to hear this, boss. Believe me."
Roberts stepped back and let a young woman through. Trace looked at her, returning to his chair and sitting down. She looked familiar, but he was damned if he could place her. She was attractive enough, he guessed, if nothing special. "What can I do for you, Miss...?"
"Rosen," she said, sitting down opposite him. "Janice Rosen."
Now he remembered her. She ran some sort of clinic somewhere, looking after the poor and ill. A pathetic, bleeding–heart, failed doctor who didn't know when to let the terminally worthless die in the gutter where they belonged. However, she paid her protection money on time, and so Trace didn't really care what she did.
"So, what can I do for you, Miss Rosen?"
"Someone came to our clinic two nights ago. A man and a woman. They were bringing someone in, someone quite ill."
"So? That happens in medical clinics, doesn't it?"
"We don't get people like this in. I didn't recognise the woman, but I'd seen the man on the vids. He was that war hero, the one who retired. Dexter Smith was the name, although he didn't use it." Trace sat forward. Now he was interested.
"Anyway, I didn't see the person they brought in, not for a while anyway. I wondered at first why they didn't go to a regular hospital up–sector somewhere. Then I saw who it was they brought in.
"It was her. Delenn."
"Delenn is locked up in some military hospital," Trace snorted.
"It was her, I'm sure of it. It's got to be her. She had a mild fever and was in quite deep shock. But it was her. She had the.... the headbone and everything."
"Is she still there?"
"Yes. She's recovering, and she's awake most of the time now, but I told Captain Smith she wouldn't be able to move for another couple of days.