Bright Star Read online

  As Lilian begins to form a question, she is halted by Trevelyan’s motion of negation. “We will speak when we are in the Dispensary, not before.”

  Acutely aware of the monitors that will record their passing and all that they say, Lilian nods her obedience as she follows Trevelyan from the riser and down the fourth-storey corridor to the Dispensary. Within the Dispensary, the monitor records are only accessible by the master medic or Monsignor Lucius Mercio, the Serengeti preeminence.

  Honor knows not fear. Lilian is certain milord awaits. This day.

  The single dispensary attendant on duty motions them toward Master Chin’s office. “They are waiting.”

  Two men are seated in the master medic’s office. The smaller, Master Medic Chin, has broad features with sharp cheekbones and a blade of a nose complemented by almond-shaped, deep-set black eyes and a mobile mouth. His golden complexion is topped by dark, tightly curling hair kept short. In his early sixties, the slender man of average height moves with precise grace as he rises at the sight of Lilian.

  The man who rises alongside Chin tops him by at least a foot. Lucius Mercio is a tall, virile man in his late forties. His olive-hued, aquiline features are set in their customary harsh, intimidating lines. Over the past seasons, Lilian has become accustomed to milord’s forbidding expression. This is more. Milord is angered.

  Fear lances through Lilian as she recalls milord’s correction on the other occasions she angered him. It is of no comfort that then, as now, she warranted correction.

  Honor endures. It is Seventh Day and milord has been pulled into the Cartel due to Lilian’s error. The rioting in her innards surges and is suppressed by her will as the ache behind her eyes increases. Honor acts as duty commands.

  Lucius had barely taken a seat in Chin’s office when the entry chimes sounded. Trevelyan acted quickly to remove Lilian from incarceration. His spymaster’s efficiency does naught to reduce Lucius’ ire. It has been barely two months since Lilian’s last involvement with the militia, and unlike the last occasion, she has used Excessive Defense. With all that is in play, how could she? Lucius lacks not the resources to address the challenge; it should not be necessary. Does she think his favor, his conservatorship, gives her the right? Lilian is no longer a warrior. She has sworn she has no ambition to reclaim that status. This day’s events tell another tale.

  Rising with Chin, Lucius turns to greet his wayward apprentice.

  Socraide’s Sword! The woman appears to have been dragged through a Crevasse.

  Rigid with tension, the slender, athletic form lacks its usual grace. Her face is pale, the fine bone structure and determined chin daubed with mud. The deep gray eyes are blank, yielding naught of her thoughts and emotions. Lacking its customary severe bindings, her long, dark red hair is loose and matted. Her gray leggings and faded teal tunic are splattered with more of the dark substance contained in her hair and besmirching Lilian’s face. Black rings the fingernails of her hands. Blood, not mud. Lilian is covered in blood.

  Lucius’ anger with Lilian is now tempered with new ire. She is his conservator, his vessel. How dare they? In two strides, Lucius reaches Lilian. “You were not permitted to cleanse?”

  “C-cleanse, milord?” Lilian stutters as she tilts her head to meet milord’s fierce gaze, not quite able to understand the question. Above average height for a woman, in her racing shoes, Lilian barely reaches milord’s broad shoulders.

  “You are covered in blood, woman,” Milord snaps as he eyes her begrimed form with increasing disgust.

  Blood. So much blood. Do not be sick. Must not be sick on milord. Answer milord.

  “There was a basin.” Lilian looks at her hands, recalling how rapidly the water turned red as she attempted to cleanse. Within moments, the water was so fouled Lilian could not bear to touch it. In the bells since, Lilian has successfully ignored the tacky substance dried into her hair, clothes, and skin. Now she gags with the recall. “It was insufficient for . . . I could not . . . I—”

  It is impossible. Her rioting belly refuses to be contained. A hand clasped over her mouth, Lilian bolts into the freshening closet.

  “Well done, Lucius.” Chin scowls as the freshening closet door closes to the sound of Lilian’s retching.

  »◊«

  “Lilian, this is ill done.” Milord paces the length of Master Chin’s office as Lilian meekly submits to the master medic’s attention.

  Cleansed, garbed in a medic’s turquoise trousers, and holding the matching tunic to her breasts, Lilian is seated on a medic’s table while Chin deftly applies ointment to the abrasions that cover her left shoulder and side where she was slammed into the gravel by the shrine beggar.

  “Yes, milord.” Lilian’s admission ends on a gasp as Chin finds an exceptionally tender spot. Her innards settled, Lilian is increasingly aware that the ache behind her eyes is becoming a throb. Honor endures.

  “How, Lilian?” Milord scowls. “You are better skilled than to slay without necessity.”

  Honor acts as duty commands.

  “I erred, milord.” Lilian’s pained admission addresses milord’s pacing boots. “I . . . I was inattentive and . . .”

  “Lilian.” Milord’s boots are planted firmly in front of her. His tone signals he will tolerate no prevarication.

  “I have not varied my race route in over a month,” Lilian chokes out.

  Lilian races with the Seventh Day dawn not only for the quietude but the obscurity. There are many who believe she should have accepted the Final Draught in contrition for the crimes of her father, Remus Gariten. Her failure to do so has added the charge of cowardice to that of corrupt genetics. Even at that early bell, she has been subject to jeers, spitting, and even thrown rocks. Altering her path each sevenday did much to alleviate that insult and assault. After milord granted her the conservator’s seal, she became overconfident, certain that it shielded her from routine despite.

  “Foolish,” milord snaps. “It does not explain your lapse.”

  Lapse? What says milord? Startled, Lilian releases her inspection of milord’s boots to address the stern visage. “Milord, I do not . . . I beg milord’s pardon . . . I—”

  “Lilian, cease.” Milord’s harsh tones are as cutting as a blade. “I know you are able to deter such a meager assailant without a deathblow. Why? How dared you?”

  Deathblow? Meager assailant? Lilian lightly shakes her head, attempting to clear her wits. It does naught but flare the throbbing behind her eyes into an insistent pounding. Milord thinks . . . milord believes . . . no. In this Lilian bears no guilt.

  Throat tight, Lilian forces her eyes to meet milord’s harsh gaze. “It was an error, milord. I was inattentive. Surprised. I sought only to sever the garrote before it ended my life. I knew not of the beggar’s wound until I found my feet. I . . . I tried to halt the blood . . . wet . . . slippery . . . I . . .”

  The pounding behind Lilian’s eyes expands and blossoms into a dark spot obscuring her vision. There is a roaring in her ears. Chin’s voice, “Enough—”

  Large, strong hands enclose Lilian’s shoulders, ease her onto her back. Milord’s voice, “Chin—”

  »◊«

  “It is fortunate that the Fifth Warrior’s Shrine attendants were the ones to summon the militia.” Trevelyan’s voice penetrates the cloud that surrounds Lilian. She is on her back, the surface is hard. Milord’s penthouse? Milord’s dining table? No. There is stiff canvas beneath her, not cool stone.

  What is Master Trevelyan discussing? Fifth Warrior? Sinead’s Shrine? Lilian dimly recalls the shrine keeper arriving at the morning’s carnage shortly before the militia.

  “Lilian.” At Master Chin’s call, Lilian turns toward his voice. The medic nods encouragingly. “How many fingers?”

  “Two, Master Chin,” Lilian replies automatically and then notes the absence of the headache that so bedeviled her. “My thanks, Master Chin.”

  “Lie there a moment,” Chin orders before moving away.


  “Shades’ Grace.” At milord’s voice, Lilian turns her head. Milord is pacing. “Bribing the militia to keep silent is one matter; bribing prelates is more difficult.”

  “True enough, ,” Trevelyan voices from the small couch. “Although, even before offered an incentive for silence, Sergeant D’Angelo was not eager to involve the media.”

  “His superiors certainly know the value a media stream would place on such incendiary information.” Milord’s voice holds annoyance but no true heat.

  Media? Rimon’s Mercy. Lilian’s protocol review had half the Twelve Systems screaming for her blood. Were this morning’s incident made public knowledge, the outcry could overwhelm the evidence.

  “And having been compensated, they will not risk your ire, Monsignor,” Trevelyan assures. “The militia will remain bought.”

  “I have no doubt,” Milord agrees. “Your ability to contain secular authority is well proven. It is the Shrines that concern me. Prelates are more difficult to influence or corrupt.”

  Not all the local prelates are friendly to Lilian. For all milord’s power and influence, it required several months to silence the vituperative attacks of Socraide’s Shrine Keeper when Lilian first returned to Metricelli Prime after her family’s ruin.

  “Sinead’s Keeper will keep this from the media if she can,” Trevelyan comments.

  “We had the Luck of the First Warrior that Sinead’s Shrine was first on the scene,” Milord agrees. “Sinead’s Shrine will protect Sinead’s Seer if at all possible.”

  Maman? Lilian’s mother, Helena Faesetili, a seer of visions since before Lilian’s birth, is disordered in her wits. The condition places Helena outside protocol and stricture except to protect her or, should it become necessary, others from her. Her derangement shielded Helena from being forced to the Final Draught with her spouse, Remus Gariten. The voice of the Shades is not to be hindered. Sinead’s Shrine will keep silent for Helena’s sake, if not for Lilian’s.

  “Lilian, drink this.” Chin has returned and levers Lilian to a sitting position as he presses something cool and heavy into her hand.

  It is a juice pouch. Lilian eyes it warily. “If you please, Master Medic, I do not wish to be silly.”

  In Lilian’s experience, Chin’s potions have a tendency to lower her inhibitions and loosen her tongue.

  “There is naught in the juice to make you silly,” Chin insists. “You are dehydrated and you have not eaten.”

  “Lilian, do as Master Chin instructs,” Lucius orders, his attention drawn by the exchange.

  “Yes, milord,” Lilian agrees and then cautiously sips the juice. At the taste of the cool, citrusy liquid, Lilian is suddenly aware of a raging thirst. Within a few breaths, the pouch is empty. It is immediately replaced with another.

  “Self-slaughter by proxy?” Milord continues his conversation with the spymaster.

  Her wits beginning to clear as she consumes the second pouch, Lilian vaguely recalls Trevelyan’s discussion with Sergeant D’Angelo. It seems an unlikely finding. Assault with a garrote holds little resemblance to the practice of flinging oneself in front of a speeding transport.

  “A stretch, I grant you,” Trevelyan says, responding to Lucius’ challenge. “But Lilian is warrior trained and her thorn was clearly visible.”

  “And she is well recognized in the Garden Center.” Milord nods. “No sane commoner attempts a warrior bearing a blade.”

  “Which makes self-slaughter even more credible,” Trevelyan adds. “Her poverty is well known; other than the blade, she has naught of value.”

  “Well done, Trevelyan,” Milord approves. “Does this come to light, the finding of self-slaughter makes the miscreant the agent of his annihilation, not Lilian. There can be no indictment of Excessive Defense.”

  Clever. Master Trevelyan is remarkably clever, Lilian thinks admiringly. Even as milord’s conservator, under the terms of her Trial by Ordeal, Lilian’s annihilation of another for any cause other than the defense of milord could send Lilian to the Final Draught.

  “The nape ties were inspired. Had the assassin not struggled, it might have succeeded,” Trevelyan notes.

  “And his resistance to Lilian’s attempt to sustain his life gives the finding of self-slaughter by proxy further credence,” Milord concludes.

  Resistance?

  “Yes, Lilian, resistance,” Milord insists as he grasps her chin and tilts Lilian’s face to his, capturing her will. The juice pouch slips unnoticed from suddenly nerveless fingers. Milord’s fingers tighten on Lilian’s chin with a determination matched by his words. “The blood spatters on your clothes and the assassin’s, the churned ground, the marks from your attempts to bind the severed wrist all confirm your statement that he struggled.”

  Struggled? It had all occurred so quickly, her fear, her desperate defense against the garrote, her frantic attempts to halt the blood. Eyes wide and confused, Lilian confesses, “It was so slippery. All that blood, my hands, his wrist . . . I could not seem to catch hold.”

  “He struggled, Lilian,” Milord commands. “Recall it. Do not forget it.”

  “Yes, milord,” Lilian agrees. Her recall does not matter, only milord’s will.

  “As it should be,” Milord’s slight smile indicates he is no longer angered.

  “What should be?” Lilian asks. It is well milord smiles.

  Milord smiles? Demon shit. Lilian is unknowingly speaking random thoughts. Lucius’ smile disappears into a flat line of disapproval as he turns on Chin. “I thought the juice would not make her silly?”

  “The juice did not,” Chin shrugs. “The injection I gave her to clear her head pain will—” with a glance a Lilian, Chin amends, “—is making her silly.”

  Brows lowering at the master medic, Lucius bites out, “It would be preferable if Lilian remained sensible awhile longer.”

  Unconcerned by the censure in Lucius’ tone, Chin offers another unrepentant shrug. “She is ill from the events of the day. If Lilian is to recover, she must sleep. You may interrogate her on the morrow.”

  “How long will she remain awake?” Lucius asks, noting Lilian’s owl-like gaze.

  “A bell or two. No more,” Chin replies as he stows his instruments. “You should send her home.”

  “Home? Katleen!” Lilian starts to push off the table. “My sister. It has been bells . . . she will be frightened . . . I must . . .”

  “Peace, Lilian,” Lucius says, reassuring his increasingly dazed apprentice. “Katleen is in the care of Sinead’s Shrine.”

  At Lucius’ words, Lilian nods and relaxes back on the table, commenting absently, “She is a favorite with the acolytes.” With a deep sigh, she adds, “They will be underfoot for days now.”

  “Who will be underfoot?” Lucius queries. Lilian’s wits are definitely wandering.

  “Underfoot, milord?” Lilian tilts her head to examine milord’s boots. “There is naught under milord’s feet but the floor.”

  “Monsignor.” The deep baritone of Mr. George, Lucius’ driver, sounds from the entrance.

  Knowing he has not summoned George, Lucius looks again at Chin and receives a bland expression in response. With a sound of irritation, Lucius turns back to Lilian.

  “Milord frowns. Milord is displeased,” Lilian observes in forlorn tones.

  “Milord is sending you home,” Lucius returns resignedly as he helps Lilian from the table, holding her firmly as she begins to sway.

  Turning to George, Lucius instructs, “George, see that Lilian is returned to her home, and endeavor not to hear whatever she may voice.”

  “Yes, Monsignor,” George acknowledges, accepting Lilian from Lucius and her thorn from Trevelyan.

  With George’s aid, Lilian navigates a path to the door as Lucius addresses Trevelyan. “Discover who this man was and his purpose in this attack.”

  Neither Lucius nor Trevelyan believes for a moment that it was a random act. There are many in the Twelve Systems who wish to see Remus Gariten’s tainte
d offspring annihilated, his corrupt genetics eradicated.

  2. Bright Star

  To end the Anarchy and establish the Rule of Order, the Five Warriors created the Code of Engagement and its governing protocols. Bound by these agreements, Socraide Omsted, the First Warrior, and Rimon Ben Claude, the Second Warrior, were compelled to abandon conquest and turn to stellar exploration to expand their territories and advance their ambitions. By the time Socraide and Rimon stepped into eternity, the Three Systems had become the Six Systems. Of the new systems, only the Sixth System contained Vistrite, the semi-liquid crystal essential to all advanced technology.

  By the close of the ninth century of Order, the Six Systems had become the Twelve Systems, with none of the additional systems holding Vistrite. Advancements in wealth and technology were unevenly distributed in the more distant systems. In these underdeveloped systems, little has changed since the Order of the Five Warriors was first established. ~ excerpt from The Foundations of Order, a scholarly treatise.

  Sevenday 25, Day 1

  Thirty years. Thirty years working to become my own woman. I’ll not lose it all due to Mercio’s plaything. In her early fifties, the portly odds manager waits impatiently in the antechamber of Crevasse City’s most notorious black raider. She cannot quite believe she has erred. It is all but certain that Lucius Mercio’s doxy, Lilian, will live past the end of the sevenday. No one expected the pampered warrior to survive the trial of apprenticeship for more than a season. A half year is fantastical.

  Hilda used the unprecedented opportunity of Lilian’s Trial by Ordeal to lure new customers to her wager pools, offering longer odds than prevalent and expanding the pools well beyond the standard. Paying out four-to-one when Lilian survived the dry season was a minor setback. The coming First Day, the eleven-to-one wagers will be due if Lilian survives a half year, which she most likely will. The odds manager has six commerce days to discover sufficient funds to cover her losses. Tiger Sylvester is her last hope for an arrangement that will keep her afloat.

  A burly thug appears in the doorway and motions Hilda into the interior.