The Ashes of Worlds

She pulled away from him as much as she dared. “Why the sudden change in attitude, Basil?” She had to pray that he was convinced McCammon was the only conspirator, that he had dealt Freedom’s Sword a mortal wound, even though Patrick Fitzpatrick had become a prominent new thorn in his side.

“Does it displease you?” he asked.

“No. I just don’t understand the reason for this.”

He explained with maddening logic. “As more and more people turn against me, Sarein, I know I can’t go it alone. Who else can I rely on? Deputy Cain? Perhaps. Colonel Andez? Of course, but only to follow orders. Remember what you and I had. Who could possibly be a better companion to shoulder the important responsibilities? You were my apprentice. I taught you about politics. You and I were perfect partners.”

“Yes, we were.”A long time ago. before you became a madman.

He seemed certain that his comment would act as an aphrodisiac, because he found the idea so very seductive himself. But Sarein knew that Chairman Wenceslas would never surrender any real power, never allow her to make changes or decisions. When she’d first met him, she had been young and naive. She had listened to his philosophy and studied him — for a time.

He had killed McCammon.

He had killed the Archfather.

He had killed former Chairman Fitzpatrick.

He had tried to kill Peter and Estarra, more than once.

He stroked her cheek, smiling at her. Although his hands were covered with invisible blood, Sarein had to be more convincing than ever in her life, or he just might find the excuse he needed to kill her too. Sarein felt detached and bleak as he led her into the bedroom, but she didn’t show it. He never noticed the difference.

Basil did not take long to finish. For him, the visit didn’t seem to be so much about sex as it was about making sure that he had Sarein under his control. Afterward, she felt soiled, and as soon as she could make a proper excuse, she hurried into the bathroom to wash up. She wanted to take a long shower to cleanse herself, but Basil was still there, and she had to go back to him, not hide. For a moment, nausea threatened to overwhelm her.

She splashed cold water on her face, drew a deep breath, and toweled off. Through force of will she regained her composure — Basil was a master at that. For years, as his protegee, she had listened to him describe the necessities of politics, how to stomp down emotions and take the required action. She had learned from the best.

She emerged from the bathroom only to hear him at the door of her quarters, surreptitiously leaving. Sarein froze, holding her breath, hoping he would not turn back. She didn’t call out to him. When Basil sealed the door behind him, she shuddered with relief.

Sarein slumped back onto the rumpled bed. After a moment of paralysis, she began to tear at the sheets, uprooting them from the mattress. She couldn’t stand to feel the fine fabric against her skin, reminding her that she had already felt it beneath her, with Basil on top, thrusting. She had squirmed, not in passion, but loathing. Sarein hated herself for fearing him.

She pulled up one of the pillows to rip off the case and found a package hidden beneath. Basil must have put it there — which explained why he had left so soon. Clearly, he had wanted to be gone when she found his “surprise.”

Sarein stared at the package, as if it were a hidden featherviper coiled and waiting to attack: an imagepak, with a screen and a player. She dreaded finding out what it held, but she also knew — from Basil’s training, of course — that the sooner one learned of a threat, the more time one had to counteract it.

She played the series of images. Basil had not recorded an introductory message, as she had expected. Instead, she saw grainy surveillance images: Sarein and Captain McCammon smuggling the green priest Nahton in to see King Peter and Queen Estarra when they had been under house arrest; Estarra’s conversation with her in the greenhouse wing, during which she laid out evidence of Basil’s crimes and indiscretions; whispered conversations with Deputy Cain. Sarein was in all of the surreptitious recordings. Any one of them would have been damning enough.

They had thought they were so careful. yet Basil had watched them all.

Cold sweat trickled down her spine. Now she understood what Basil was telling her. He knew full well that Freedom’s Sword had not, in fact, been behind the assassination attempt. He knew that McCammon hadn’t acted alone in his schemes. He knew that Sarein had taken part in the conspiracy. He had all the evidence he needed.

Yet he had allowed her to live — for now — with the knowledge that he could change his mind at any time he chose.

Sarein rushed back to the bathroom, and this time she did vomit, long and loudly.

114

Anton Colicos

Fighting the malaise of grief in his empty, pointless-seeming university office, Anton took his files out of storage and stacked them on the desk. Books and documents, handwritten notes, papers, printed correspondence from his parents, newsnet articles stored in a special scrapbook folder. everything he needed. The extensive biography project had been interrupted, cut short — just as his parents’ lives had been.

But his heart was so heavy he could not find the initiative to get back to the work. Where once he had been enthusiastic about writing a celebratory chronicle of the renowned xeno-archaeologists Margaret and Louis Colicos, now the silence and emptiness of the office weighed upon him.

Somehow along the way, he had forgotten how to do anything without Vao’sh.

Feeling desolate, he remembered that he had also promised to write the poignant and dramatic story of the green priest Nira, her tribulations in the breeding camps on Dobro and her love for Mage-Imperator Jora’h. Now she was gone, too, escaped with the Solar Navy when all Ildirans had fled the Moon. leaving Vao’sh behind.

And, most important of all, he had to make sure that Vao’sh was remembered in theSaga of Seven Suns, seen as a real hero, part of the brave tale and not just a detached storyteller.

He didn’t know how he could ever find the heart to finish any of those projects.

For so long he and the old rememberer had worked side by side, talking with each other, pointing out nuances or factual contradictions in theSaga or long-censored apocrypha. Anton had translated from the original Ildiran and delivered portions of the epic to appreciative Earth scholars. He and Vao’sh had been true companions of heart and mind. Even during their imprisonment on Earth, at least they had been together. He had never imagined how empty he would feel now.

All through their time at the Department of Ildiran Studies, ostensibly under “close debriefing” as ordered by Chairman Wenceslas, the two of them had gone to numerous gala events and spectacular conferences, and had given countless talks in crowded lecture halls. Now that the old rememberer was gone, Anton simply sat at his desk and stared.