He cast his mind back many years, to the first time he had stepped within the Dreaming. He had been at Varmain’s side. The legendary warrior-diplomat was dying and she wished one last confirmation that what she had done had been right. He had been a hesitant child then, anxious and concerned, afraid to look up at one so touched by Valen.
“I cannot have a guide who will not look up,” Varmain had told him, in that gently forceful tone of hers, the voice that had humbled ambassadors, prophets and emperors. “You will be forever bumping into things.”
And he had looked up, and what had he seen? An old woman, who limped and hobbled, whose eyes were dimmed and whose movements were slow. Once warriors and prophets and rulers had trembled at the sound of her footsteps. Now she was simply old and frail, and needed his help to walk.
That had been an important realisation. Everyone, no matter how great, fell in time. No one could be victorious forever. He had later learned a saying from the decadent Centauri. ‘Let no man be called happy or great until he be dead.’ It had fit Varmain perfectly.
They had entered the Dreaming and Varmain had sat down, ushering him to sit beside her. She had talked slowly of her past and of her great deeds, all immortalised in legend. They had relived her childhood and her love through the images of the Dreaming. At one point she had stopped breathing and Sinoval turned to her. Her eyes opened and she smiled.
“So much,” she had said. “Valen has blessed me indeed.”
And then she died.
He had not been sure of how to react. Should he leave, call out to the people who waited in the Whisper Gallery, wait for them to come to him?
And then he saw Valen. Who else could it be – a glowing figure who looked at him, wreathed all in light, reaching out an arm. “Minbar’s destiny lies in your hands, Sinoval of the Wind Swords clan,” he said. “You will reunite Minbar, lead my people to their destiny. Through you, will the Minbari rule the galaxy.”
He had passed out then, and when he had awoken, days later, he remembered the vision, and Valen’s words, convinced of the rightness of his destiny. He had thrown himself into his work, training alongside Durhan, then still in the prime of life, working hard to rise in the ranks of his clan. When the war came he was an Alyt. By its end he was Shai Alyt, one of Branmer’s most trusted advisors. After that, he had risen and risen. Made Satai after Sheridan’s assault on the Grey Council over Mars, he soon became the dominant warrior caste voice after Shakat resigned, never having recovered from his injuries sustained in the attack over Mars. Then, with Deathwalker’s help, his power grew. People loyal to him, such as Tryfan and Kalain, gained power in the great fleet being massed against the Enemy, and in the Rangers. After Branmer’s death and Neroon’s disappearance, Sinoval was the obvious choice to become the next Entil’zha. All it took was Delenn’s disappearance. After that, the title of Holy One was easy. Sinoval now walked where no one save Valen had in a thousand years.
And all it had cost him was his soul.
Deathwalker had damned him, and doomed Minbar.
No. He had damned himself, and doomed Minbar himself.
In Valen’s Name! Was this the destiny I was promised? Is this it?
No, said a voice.
Sinoval looked around, as much as Deathwalker’s poison would let him. There was no one in sight.
“Who?” he asked. It took impossible effort even to speak.
You have a destiny. But your pride has subverted you from it. Learn from this. Your destiny is not yet confirmed.
“Valen,” he whispered. “Forgive… me… Valen. I…”
You must forgive yourself. Learn of your destiny, Sinoval of the Wind Swords. You must learn.
His body was suddenly bathed in light. He closed his eyes tightly and screamed as pain tore through him. His arms jerked outwards, so that they were thrust out. Hidden nails of light pinned his hands and feet to the ground.
“Valen…” he cried. “Valen!”
The light faded and he opened his eyes. He could feel himself again. Slowly, hesitantly, he staggered to his feet, almost falling as he did so. “Valen, are you…?” There was no one.
“Isil’zha veni,” he whispered.
Deathwalker. He had to save his people. He had to stop Deathwalker. He had to order the retreat, before his people were destroyed. He had to…
Suddenly, Sinoval stopped. He still had his pike – one of Durhan’s nine blades – but that did not seem enough. He went to the small table, one of the few items of furniture in the room, and picked a small item up from it. It was a weapon, a human weapon. He had taken it from Sheridan over a year ago, the last time the human had been held prisoner on Minbar. He thought he knew how to use it.
He picked it up and stuffed it into a pocket in his robe.
“I will not fail you, Valen,” he whispered.
“Isil’zha veni.”
In Valen’s Name…
Warleader Na’Kal of the J’Tok looked up at the two ships soaring slowly towards him and the Centauri warship, and closed his eyes. He was not a particularly pious man – his mother had been a haphazard follower of G’Lan, his father had died before Na’Kal had emerged from his mother’s pouch. He did however believe in G’Kar, not as a prophet, or as a holy figure, but as a man, as one man with a vision. He did not necessarily believe in that vision, but he knew the chaos his home planet was in. He knew, like G’Kar, that the Narns were a dying people unless action could be taken. Their current war with the Centauri proved that. Na’Kal had fought in the previous war, and he knew just how closely the Narns had come to being annihilated and occupied again. But no, no one else believed that. And now they were making the same mistakes they had always made.
There was something G’Kar had said during his last speech before the Kha’Ri, something he had later repeated in private to Na’Kal. ’Freedom brings responsibility, which is why so many fear it.’
For those raised during the occupation, such as G’Kar and Na’Kal, freedom had come at a very high cost. For those who were younger, freedom was all they had ever known.
The Narns were a dying race, and they would stay that way unless G’Kar did something about it. No one else could.
But perhaps Na’Kal could make a difference.
“Captain Mollari,” he said over the commlink. “How is your telepath?”
“Only barely conscious,” came the reply. “Certainly not able to hold them off. What about yours?”
“One dead, one near to burn-out.” Narn telepaths had been created recently in a private deal between G’Kar and a human telepath. As of yet they were unstable and low-powered.
“Well,” Carn Mollari said. “How many of their ships have you taken out? Just for the bet?”
Na’Kal smiled. “Two of their big ships. Five of the smaller ones. You?”
Carn made a gesture of surprise. “The same. Uncle Londo will be disappointed. If we can’t best a Narn, who can we beat?”
“It is not over yet. Remember to toast our memory when you celebrate.”
“What? Na’Kal, don’t…”
Na’Kal deactivated the commlink. He looked up at the ships approaching him. Huge, black, vast against the night of space. Ancient, timeless, powerful. The symbol of past legends, past nightmares, past fears…
Na’Kal closed his eyes and ordered a full forward charge, activating a full-focussed, forward blast as he did so. The J’Tok could not maintain such firepower or such speed long, but it would not need to.
The first Shadow ship’s energy blast tore into the front of the J’Tok, destroying everything and everyone on the bridge in a blinding flash of light, but that did not matter.