Fairy Tale

Part 2

When the Chamberlain opened the door to announce him, Tasmia watched the young dancer slip her hand from out of Lar Gand's, step with quick silence into the shadows, then disappear like mist. The same one from the Feast? Yes, it was. At her side, Tasmia's hands clenched in rage. Furious, she opened her mouth to shout, to release her pain and anger, give it voice and form. To make it real. To let him know that...that...

That what? That he had hurt her? Had pricked her pride? That she still cared? She set her teeth.

Never.

Had she not had enough of that years ago? Tasmia regarded him carefully; the set of his shoulders, the tilt of his head as he watched the dancer melt into the darkness of the corridor. It must have been the look in his eyes that gave the game away, she decided. That still plain look of isolation and loneliness that clung to him like a second skin.

Suddenly, she knew.

He had taken no comfort from the dancer. The smile that graced Tasmia's cupid's bow lips was frank and open, tinged with the sweetness of victory.

"Oh, I know you, Lar Gand," she thought. "I know you too well. You've not lain with her, have you? I'd wager my crown that you haven't. But I'll bet she offered. And you...couldn't. Betrayal isn't in you. It suits you for me to think you made love to her, though, doesn't it?" In the privacy of her thoughts, she watched again the perfectly timed departure, the artful clutch of Lar's hand after the dancer's as the younger woman slid from his stiff embrace. Softly, she began to applaud.

"Well played, Lar, well played!" she cheered him. "Why, for a moment, I actually believed you!"

Tasmia showed him her disdainful back then, stalking away from him with heavy steps, retreating into the coolness of the shadows of her sanctuary. When she heard the door close behind her, she deliberately did not turn to see if he had followed her. She knew that he would. Hadn't he always? She would not allow him even that small triumph. She dared not. For Tasmia had always known that once she permitted him back into her heart, or even acknowledged his continued presence there in any way, she was undone. That he would have won. Even his voice, when he spoke, struck her like the edge of a bladed weapon, and her hand shook as she poured wine for herself.

"What do you want from me, Tasmia?" he demanded.

Spinning to face him, her fingers grasped the wine cup like an anchor as if it might ground her, lend strength to her suddenly shaky knees.

"You know very well what I want, Lar!" she growled. "Damn you! I've got to have Winath to deal with Vril Dox, and you know it! We've run out of time for these petty games. You want Lyrissa on the throne. And for years, you've used Winath as a lever to try and move her there. And I've opposed you at every turn. Even when I imprisoned you, the two of you, you and Lyrissa, conspired behind my back."

He stared at her, making a sharp gesture of dismissal with his hands. "That isn't why you sent me away, Tasmia," he said softly. "All that came afterwards, and you know that." Tasmia gulped her wine, and poured more.

"Lyrissa is a rebel!" she averred, over the rim of the goblet. "She's rash and impulsive!" Tasmia's lips skinned themselves back from her teeth in a very credible snarl. "You set too much store by her. You love her too much!"

Eyes blazing, he shot out of the chair in which he'd reclined, and grabbed her wrist that raised the cup to her lips for more wine. When Tasmia tried to shake Lar off, he held her tightly. She had only a faint hope that he did not feel the chill suffusing the flesh of her hand, or the slight tremble she herself felt there.

"And just how do you think she got that way?" he hissed. "Where do you think she learned it?"

"You're her father!" Tasmia spat, struggling vainly for release once more, "You made her!"

"Oh, yes!" Lar cried. "For eighteen years, I made her, shaped her, taught her! Loved her. I loved her because you didn't! I have an eidetic memory, Tasmia! I recall every year in vivid detail. We'd only just conquered the Dark Circle System, and you'd only just found Dev-Em. I distinctly remember landing on my buttocks when you kicked me out of your bed for him."

"Not before you kicked me out of yours for Kal-L," she raged.

She watched the blood drain from his pale face like water from a broken jar, leaving Lar white with fury. His eyes flared red for a moment, and Tasmia found herself very glad of the stasis collar that stripped him of his powers. But, in the end, he turned his back on her, and she watched the muscles of his neck and shoulders tense and flex beneath the alabaster skin. Soon, she knew, would come the sound of splintering wood, as the table he leaned upon gave way under the silent assault of those hands. She knew him very well.

Embracing Lar from behind, Tasmia lay her cheek against the sun-like warmth of his broad back, and smiled against the skin. She kissed the tiny spot in the small of his back that she knew so well, and felt him stiffen beneath her skilled hands.

"Don't," he hissed. "Let the dead rest, Tasmia." The whisper of her laughter ran chills down his spine.

"'Don't!' he cries," she mocked him. "Ancestors, did you hear him? 'Oh stop, before my heart cracks!'"

"Stop it!" He was trembling, now. Instantly, she tore herself away from him in a fury.

"How?" Tasmia cried. "It's all I have left of you! It's what I live for! Tormenting the little bits and pieces of you that Kal-L left behind." The table went flying across the room, and shattered against the far wall with a sound very much like breaking bone. Sadly, Tasmia regarded the broken pieces of the beautiful, inlaid bit of the woodcarver's art.

"You're still a glory of a man, lover," she sighed, "but you were always hell on the furniture."

An uneasy silence fell between them, then. Perhaps it was because she knew that he would not do so that Tasmia bridged that yawning chasm separating them. Or perhaps it was something else that spurred her. He was never a great talker. She lifted her hand to touch him, then thought better of it, and lowered it slowly.

"I didn't kill him, Lar," she said softly.

"No..." His voice shook for a moment, and Lar could not bring himself to look at her. "You didn't kill Kal, Tasmia..." And then he turned and did look at her, long and hard.

"But someone very much like you did."

"Oh no," she challenged him. "You'll not prick me with that aged pin, m'love. Kal was my Body Shield. Once upon a time, before I made you more, that was your job. To protect me. He was your replacement. Your Daxamite Body Guild sent him to me when I married you. If you need someone to blame for his death, blame yourself."

"And if you need someone to forgive..." she thought in despair, "forgive yourself."

Slowly, he gathered the pieces of the sundered table and, like a puzzle, began fitting them together again, focusing all his attention on the simple task. Sooner or later, he would likely succeed, Tasmia knew. He was good with his hands. And, while he shunned matters of the heart, his quick mind and agile fingers were well suited to building and designing. But after a few moments, he gave it up.

"He loved you, Tasmia," her Consort said. "Kal loved you. He died for you." With a sigh, she knelt there beside him on the floor, and gathered his head to her breast, cradling it there like a child. He did not stop her.

"No, Lar, my once love," she told him gently, "Kal loved you." Her dark eyes, clouded now with memory, drifted to the room's large fireplace, and she kissed his hair. "He stood right there on those stones, and told me so. On his knees, he begged my forgiveness for loving you. For being weak enough to come between us." His hand clutched at hers as if by instinct. "And when he died...it wasn't my heart he was shielding from the assassin...no, it was yours. He was bound. Bound by tradition, and the Rules of your Guild. Those...and something more. In the end, he saved me, not even because it was his duty...but because he thought you still loved me. Poor, foolish Kal. If only he'd known..."

She stroked the soft night dark hair, then kissed away the tears in his eyes in silence. The taste of salt lingered on her lips for long moments, before it faded.

"Shades help me, Lar!" she mourned, in the quiet of her mind, "Don't you understand? You were always my only weakness. You. The only thing that let me know that I was Tasmia Mallor...and not just The Great Ruler...another in a long line of strong, capable Queens. The only thing that I could not live without. And so, of course, I had to prove to myself that I could."

She contemplated the desolation of the last ten years of her life, while she held him closely. The warmth of his body seemed to lessen the chill of it, somehow. She sighed when his arms drew her closer, relaxing into the comfort there. The touch of his lips was gentle, and she fancied he could taste the sweetness of the vintage wine she drank there. For many long moments, they lay together, tightly entwined, speaking only with the closeness of their bodies.

It was jarring when the silence was finally broken. "You're wrong, you know..." he whispered in her ear. "You don't need Winath to deal with Vril Dox. In fact, it's best if you don't have it. That way, you've a perfect excuse for not giving it back to him. And he can't force you on the matter of the succession."

"Perhaps," she admitted in answer. "But that doesn't resolve the succession. And it doesn't settle matters between us, now does it?"

"I suppose not," he said. Slowly, he released her and moved away. While Tasmia poured more wine to fortify her courage, Lar stationed himself before the crackling fire, and she watched reflections of the flames dancing in his eyes. Her hands were steady now. They had ceased their feverish trembling. The wine warmed her, and she smiled.

"So we stand together against Vril Dox, then?"

She did not like to admit to herself that she held her breath waiting for his answer, but the relief that flooded her with his simple nod of the head could not be denied.

"Yes, but you're still wrong to want Lyddie on the throne." She suspected that her silence told him more than she meant to reveal, but she could not help it. It almost frightened her, she was so tired. So very, very tired. Tired and weary of a great many, many things.

"But that still won't stop you from doing what you must, will it?" she cursed herself.

Tasmia swallowed her wine quickly, and poured more. "We can argue about the succession some other time, Lar," she told him in a firm voice. "But for now, Vril Dox is the enemy, not either one of us. Jo was always right about that."

Chuckling, he lifted his hands, and warmed them before the spitting fire there in the large, chill room. "But sooner or later, you'll have to deal with me," he said. "I'm like The Great Darkness, old woman. There's no way around me."

"You forget, Lar," she reminded him with a smile. "I command the Darkness. It's my element." He shook his head.

"Not this time, my heart. Not this time."

She studied him as he watched her down her wine, and refill the cup yet again. The decanter was almost empty now, she saw, and frowned. Gently, he took the silver goblet from her reluctant hands, and set it aside.

Now it was Lar's turn to frown his displeasure. "You didn't drink this much in the past," he said in soft worried tones that lapped at the edges of her sadness, like the sea upon the shore. Unconsciously, her small hands knotted themselves into spasmodic fists. As little as she could bear his coldness, Tasmia found that she could endure his love and concern even less.

"And what do you do when you're sad, Lar?" she flared at him. "What do you do?"

With his eyes tight shut against the image before him of her pain, he murmured, "I try and reach out. To touch something that makes me happy."

Since his eyes were closed, he did not see her hand reach out for his. He did not see it ball itself into a fist and fall away, short of its goal. But he could hear the pain that lived in the sharp, indrawn breath that wasn't quite a sob. When Lar opened his eyes again, she had her back to him, stiff and erect. But when he touched Tasmia, she shivered and flinched from him. Her shoulders shook, but no sound was allowed to escape the black hole of her pride.

And yet...

She needed surcease, ease for her pain and loneliness. But not from him, he knew. No, not from him. She was not yet ready to accept that. Too much still lay between them. Too many years of torment and apartness. Too much pain. He could not comfort her. He could only fuel her agony. No, he could offer her no balm for her seeping wounds.

But he knew who could.

Lar bit his lips. And because the damnable collar stripped him of his invulnerability, he bled. The salt taste of it flooded his mouth, recalling the earlier taste of his own tears. Blood and tears came from the same inner wellsprings of the body, so he supposed it was only right and just that they taste so similar. It was hellish to see her suffer like this. And he could end it with a single gesture. Oh, yes, he could. All he had to do was summon the man who could comfort her.

All he had to do was tear out his heart.

It would be as if he were giving her, finally and irrevocably, into the hands of another. Could he do it? Even for her own sake? To ease her pain? Was his pride the match for hers? Just how much did he love her? More than his life, yes. But more than his pride? That was another matter, wasn't it?

The anger that gripped him made him dizzy. Blindly, he groped for a chair, and fell into it heavily, as if his body were an unwanted weight dragging him down. The boy was so young...and not what he appeared to be, Lar suspected. How could he be, with such a kinsman as Vril Dox? And worst of all, he was stolen. Stolen from her own daughter's bed. That rankled deeply.

Staring into the fire, Lar covered his ears against the soft murmurs of pain coming from Tasmia, stabbing him through the heart with each tiny cry.

"Choose, you bastard!" he forced himself. "Your pride...or the other half of your soul..."

Steeling himself, Lar walked to the door. He could only pray that his voice was steady, that it did not betray him, when he called to the guard there.

"Find His Grace, Lord Querl Dox, the Pride of Colu," he instructed her. "Tell him..." His hand clutching the jamb of the door tightened its grip, until his knuckles were white. "Tell him the Queen has need of him, and he must hurry to her quickly."

When the boy arrived, Lar Gand forced himself to met the younger man's green eyes at an even level. He could only give a small nod of his head when Querl moved to take Tasmia into his arms. He watched carefully as Tasmia melted into the youth's embrace, and told himself that he would not shame himself or Tasmia by spilling his guts or his tears over the carpeted floor. He would not.

Leaving in as much silence as he'd arrived, Lar told himself that the sound of the joy that rang in Tasmia's voice when she cried, "Querl!" was enough.

It would have to be.

"You are well?" inquired Vril Dox of his younger brother. Querl nodded.

"Oh yes. Tasmia takes good care of me." The Coluan Tyrant eyed his brother dispassionately, then dismissed him.

"Better you than me," he observed with acerbic calm. "I'd rather couple with a pit viper, I must say." Querl smiled at that. He wanted to laugh, though he thought it best that he not. But his repressed merriment must have shone in his eyes. Vril lifted one blond eyebrow in silent inquiry. Querl managed to confine his laughter to a single harsh chuckle.

"How strange ... " he mused. "She said almost the exact same thing about you. Her very words, as I recall."

An icy calm descended over Vril's broad features, settling in like a Winter blizzard, and just that simply Querl knew that he had made a grave mistake.

"You've been too long in this nest of snakes," observed Querl's brother,his voice harsh, accusing. "You've forgotten your roots, brother ... "

Querl smoothed his brow, cleansing his face of all expression in unconscious imitation of his elder brother. But his voice was another matter.

"You sent me here, brother ... " he reminded Vril. "When I was only ten."

Vril's voice lashed out like a whip, now. "I sent you here to do a job, Querl," he snarled. "You were to be Consort to Mallor's Heir. Not her personal bedtoy! It was your task to curry influence, gain the ears of the right people ... To be my eyes at her Court."

Querl smiled. Now it was his turn to lift a single blond eyebrow in mocking inquiry. "And I haven't done that, Vril?" he countered. When his elder brother held his silence and did not speak immediately, the youth plunged ahead. "I'd say I've done that rather well, brother. In fact, better than you could ever have hoped for. Instead of wasting my time with either of her daughters I've gone directly to the source of power here in this Court: Tasmia herself. That should please you." He broadened his smile until it was a most unpleasant thing, indeed.

"But ... Oh ... !" he murmured, "I forget ... That was supposed to be your job, wasn't it? All those years ago. And you failed. Beaten out by your own Body Shield; a Daxamite commoner. How ... embarrassing ... for you, brother ... "

The green of Vril Dox's face darkened beneath the studied assault of the anger that threatened to overwhelm him at Querl's words. For a moment Querl thought that his brother might actually strike him and his eyes widened. But nothing, nothing could curb the savage joy, the satisfaction, the wounds left by his barbed words brought him. He watched Vril struggle with his temper for long moments, reveling in the sight.

"Let him learn what it means to govern himself, to set aside his pride," Querl thought in triumph. "As I have learned." Suddenly, just as quickly as that, the battle was done and Vril faced him, calm and measured once more. Under tight control. Peering at his younger brother from the corners of his green eyes, he waved his hand in casual dismissal once more.

"You've turned yourself into a laughingstock, is what you've done," he pointed out, his voice steady and level. "You've sacrificed all your credibility, now and in the future, for the sake of the present. Or haven't you heard the jokes, the gossip?"

Querl blinked rapidly, setting his teeth. "Yes, I've heard them," he was forced to admit. "What of them? There's always Palace gossip. No intelligent being pays it any heed."

"An 'intelligent being'," pointed out Vril in tones that fairly sang with irony, "can tell the lay of the land from Palace gossip, little brother. And what about the Princesses? Tasmia is an old woman. She isn't going to live forever, you know. What then? What becomes of you, then? You ... and all my careful plans? Do you really think either Lyrissa or Lyddea will be content with their mother's leftovers?"

Querl's eyes narrowed, flashing green fire. He bit his tongue to stifle the retort that rose so quickly, so naturally to his lips. Vril's cruel words rankled and stabbed at him deeply. Mostly, he admitted to himself, if to no one else, because they were true. "I'm happy," he thought in growing desperation. "For the first time in my life, I'm happy. Tasmia loves me. She does. And you never did, Vril. No one else ever did. To you Vril, I was only a tool ... a thing to be used and then discarded if need be. Tasmia sheltered me when you sent me away. I don't care about Lyrissa or Lyddea. I don't want to marry either of them. I refuse. I want to stay with Tasmia. That's all I want."

And that, he knew with mounting despair, was likely the one thing that he could not have.

Vril must have sensed it, Querl decided later. Effortlessly, he moved in for the coup de grace. "Listen to me, Querl," he said, and his voice came close, so very close, to encompassing equality that Querl stood dumbfounded. "If, as you say, you're in such an enviable position with Tasmia, then use that position, Querl. Help me. Help Tasmia. She's got to realize that this matter of the succession has to be settled. If she loves you then she'll want to see to your future. She must name her Heir and confirm you as her Heir's Consort."

When he left, silent and withdrawn, Querl did not bother to look back. Could not bring himself to endure the look of anger and disdain staining his brother's face.

But the voice of that rage and frustration followed him most of the way back to his quarters before it released him from its fierce grasp.

The waiting man checked his chrono, cursing reflexively under his breath. Nass take it! Now he would have to hurry or he would be late for his other appointment of the evening. And it was a vital one. Too vital to be ignored. He gritted his teeth. Much as he might want to ignore it ... he could not. He had no choice, now. Events had forced his hand.

Standing before the door to his suite, he activated the new, hidden chameleon cloak so recently installed in his clothing. Surrounded now by a sophisticated holo-field, he stepped calmly from his rooms and scanned the empty hall. Good. No guards about. Not that it made any difference. Gone was the true man with his distinctive face and air of command. In his place stood the image of another, older man, taller, thin and fair of skin, with graying mouse brown hair and brown eyes in an angular, acerbic face.

The man he was to meet knew him only as "Middle Man".

Striding down the empty corridor, he stealthily entered the room, one of many that stood long empty and unused in this huge Palace, that he had previously chosen for the meeting and closed the door behind him. He darted into the shadows, seconds later, when a guard on routine security rounds opened the door and gave the room a cursory inspection. When the oblivious guard left, he stepped from the darkness and looked around.

He didn't see anyone, of course.

"You can come out now, boy. He's gone. I want to see you," the disguised man commanded the air.

The conspirator searched the room, sweeping the distant shadowy corners with keen eyes. In vain, he knew. The soft spoken young meta would not be seen until he willed it. It was, after all, his purpose here, was it not? He frowned in annoyance. It was just like the irritating, rebellious youth to disobey him despite orders from his own government.

"You are prepared?" he inquired softly of the young man. There came no answer.

Vastly displeased, he turned his disdainful back and waited. Let the boy play his games. In the end, his game was the only one that mattered. None of his sharp senses alerted him in the least. But, eventually, he received an answer, a voice responding from out of the dimness.

"Of course, I'm prepared, Middle Man," replied the voice, annoyed, now. "I know my job. And I'm very good at it. I don't need you to tell me how to do it."

The other crossed his arms over his chest. "I said I want to see you. And I have orders for you."

"No."

"Damn you, Norg!" he cursed. "This is too important to leave to chance! There can be no mistakes ... no room for errors! EarthGov sent you here to me because they said you were the best! And the treaty between Earth and my people is binding! It specifically binds you to our service for the duration of this mission!"

"My briefing gives me a certain leeway in how that mission is carried out," the acid voice said. "Don't push me, Middle Man! I understand why EarthGov agreed to this. What I don't understand is why you want this done. What you stand to gain. You don't like me ... and I don't like you."

"No one asked you to like me," he sneered. "Only to obey me. Your obedience is all that we require. Nothing else. Least of all your understanding. Your limited intellect could never comprehend our reasons, in any case. Suffice it to say that this will be done because we wish it to be done! That's all you need to know."

He didn't see or hear a thing. He hadn't expected to, really. But the door opened itself and then closed softly but firmly behind the angry, departing meta.

Cursing virulently once more, "Middle Man" slipped unnoticed back to his own quarters, palmed his shielded Omnicom, uplinked to the SleepNet, and prepared to retire for the evening. He had much to discuss in his dreams with the Ministers back home before the night was done.

Much.

Vril Dox ignored the wine and watched in cold distaste as Tasmia swallowed hers quickly. She rose and poured more, frowning as the last of that particular bottle soothed her dry throat with its warmth. Sighing in contentment she looked at her Earl Marshal and Jo Nah nodded. More wine would arrive shortly, Vril was sure.

"All right," Vril was curt. "Shall we get down to business?"

Tasmia's smile was almost open mockery and it made Vril flush. Bad enough that this was happening on her terms. That custom demanded that he leave his Body Shield behind for such a private audience as this. What matter that regardless of custom, he would simply have had to find an excuse to leave her behind in any case? Insult be damned! His lack of faith in Tasmia's security measures was no insult. Simply an irritating fact. One of many in recent days. He calmed his considerable temper. This must go smoothly, he reminded himself firmly. Nothing must be left to chance. Nothing.

"And what business would that be, Vril?" Tasmia chuckled.

The Queen of Talok VIII took a stance by her Consort's side and Dox watched the Daxamite draw in a quick, sharp breath. and only narrowly averted letting his angular features lapse into pointed lines of distaste. Thrice-damned upstart.

"Well," the Tyrant of Colu observed with caustic mien, "there is the matter of Querl."

"Ah yes," Tasmia assumed an air of solemnity. "Whatever shall we do with Querl?" Dox crossed his arms over his chest and lifted an arch eyebrow.

"I'd say it's more a matter of what you haven't done with Querl ... or perhaps I should say what you have done." It gave him great pleasure to see the Daxamite's eyes glitter like stone and the muscles of his jaw work themselves in silent pain.

"Oh you remember me, don't you, Lar Gand?" he thought in triumph. "Yes, you do. Good. Because I remember you. You weren't the first thing she's taken from me ... but you'll be the last." He smiled at the sight of the stasis collar that wasn't quite covered entirely by the cloth collar of his red tunic. "Not that she's had much joy of you of late."

"No, no, no," Tasmia laughed, but the flash of temper her jovial words brought Dox did not keep him from noticing that her comforting hand reached instinctively for her Consort's before she stopped herself. "Vril, Vril," she sighed in mock exasperation, "where's your sense of timing, man? That legendary intellect? It's much too early in the Game for this sort of direct frontal assault! You're slipping. Or not paying attention. Tsk, tsk. That will cost you."

Dox quirked his lips in a smile that was almost a sneer. "Cost me what, Tasmia?" he asked.

"Winath," replied Tasmia succinctly, still grinning.

The green skinned ruler allowed himself a short barking laugh. "Please, Tasmia," he shook his head in feigned annoyance. "Who's playing the fool, now, Your Majesty? I don't want Winath. I'd piss on the malodorous pest hole if I thought that would rid the Universe of it. No, you need Winath much more than I do. Which is why you'll do exactly as I say in order to keep it, won't you?"

"Modest as ever, I see," Tasmia observed. The Talokian Queen rubbed her jaw in contemplation. "Well, you see Vril, Winath is something of a problem," she confessed, her apologetic tone almost, but not quite, convincing. Vril managed to look bored.

"Then solve the problem, Highness," he instructed. "You really only have two choices. You can marry Querl to your Heir, as per our original agreement ... or you can return Querl and Winath, his dowry, to my care. I really don't care which you do. But make up your mind soon, though." He glanced at Lar who stood very still in his unnoticed corner. "Your family squabbles are your problem."

Tasmia sighed and shook her head in despair. "I'm afraid that is the problem," she mourned. "You see, Winath isn't mine to return, I'm afraid." She lowered her coal black eyes in modest embarrassment and blushed a becoming shade of cerulean. "In the salad days of my green youth, overcome by a fit of passion, I gave it to my Consort." Her smile, as it spread over her delicate features, was remarkably toothy and predatory.

"Who isn't giving it to anyone," said Lar Gand, the Mon-L.

Vril's answer, when it came, bordered suspiciously upon a growl. "How can any two even semi-sentient beings make such a tangle of so a simple thing?" he demanded. Tasmia shook her head in sad agreement.

"Such, my friend, is the role of sex in statecraft," she informed the angry Coluan. "You really should try it sometime."

Was that quickly muffled laughter from the grizzled Earl Marshal Nah? Vril ground his teeth and forced himself to ignore it. But Tasmia's darting glance of merry approval in the older man's direction made even that small, onerous courtesy virtually impossible. Frowning, Vril lifted one dispassionate blond eyebrow in acerbic inquiry.

"Be that as it may, Tasmia," Vril replied, "the situation still remains. You may - "

The servant with the wine slipped so silently into the room that no one really noticed him until he dropped his tray with a loud clatter and the delicate crystal wine decanter shattered on the stone floor, splashing its aromatic contents willy-nilly.

Afterward, Jo Nah was to reluctantly admit that he was never certain of all that he saw. The servant stumbled, let out a startled cry, then seemed to skitter backwards across the room as if pushed by some unseen hand. He remembered seeing Vril Dox pale. He recalled that distinctly. Tasmia spun on her heels at the unexpected noise to her back and, from the far corner of his eye, Jo thought he saw a brief blue-black clad flicker of motion. He thought he recognized the unassuming young man who'd caught his eye at the Feast. The one thing he was always positive about was the gun. For the barest instant the young man standing suddenly revealed in their midst looked startled. And then the metal of the small laser pistol he carried glinted in the dimness of the room's torch light as he pointed it.

Almost before he realized it, Jo was moving, but even as he did, he knew with a sinking lurch of despair that he was too late; too far away. He wasn't going to make it.

He was always absolutely certain about what happened next, though.

The gun aimed itself unerringly at Tasmia. Jo was never in doubt about that. He remembered watching the look on the young man's face change from determination to ... something else. Uncertainty? Remorse? The assassin hesitated for the briefest of instants, the gun wavered momentarily before it snapped back into place. This time, though, there was no hesitation at all. In fury at his own laggard slowness, Jo Nah, Earl Marshal to Queen Tasmia Mallor of Talok VIII, watched helplessly as the weapon discharged itself at his friend and ruler. And he was too far away.

But someone else was moving as well.

Someone closer to Tasmia.

A tall figure clad in red and blue threw itself in front of the Queen, shoving her firmly away with quick, desperate hands. Jo was always to remember the look of surprise and then utter horror that claimed Tasmia's face in that moment. The slight woman careened backwards, until she crashed heavily into the opposite wall. Jo dove for the assailant, cursing and shouting now, but again he was tardy. His headlong plunge propelled both he and the smaller, slighter youth into the large ornate desk that dominated one corner of the room.

With a heave that brought him up short of breath, the youthful would be killer flung Jo away and he went spinning backwards. But still Jo's blurring eyes brought him the satisfying sight of the other man flailing in the clutches of some unseen force, stumbling back into a rocky wall and pinned there like a prize insect on a display board, unable to move, now.

Stupid, stupid, useless old man! he cursed himself roundly, his hands knotting themselves into ready fist as he climbed slowly - so damned slowly! - to his feet.

Silently, the young man still pinned against the rocky wall was screaming and Vril Dox was smiling.

Biting back yet more curses in the tongue of his native Rimbor and many other worlds, Jo Nah yanked the Coluan ruler's recalcitrant hands away from the controls of the slim yellow belt that spanned his waist. Thrice-damned impenetrable force shield made quite a weapon when properly employed. And trust its inventor to know just how to use it.

"No!" Jo snarled, loud enough for all to hear, "if he's dead he's no use to us! The dead can't speak ... " In silence, he felt the crushing field flicker and die as the young man collapsed to the floor, his pistol clattering upon the stone from now nerveless fingers. Kicking the gun away, Jo pushed the startled, unhappy Vril Dox aside, then leaned down, grabbed the assassin's sharp chin in a painful grip and squeezed until he saw the young man's eyes water.

"And you will speak to us ... won't you boy? I guarantee it!" he hissed.

Standing once more he pointed to the wine bearing servant (bereft now of his burden), cowering in the corner beneath the brightly emblazoned mosaic of the Great Seal of Talok VIII.

"You!" he ordered, his voice firm and level now, "go and fetch Minister Daggle. Tell him to bring the Lady Imra to the Security Quad. Now. Move! Go, boy, go, go, go!" He didn't even wait to see if he'd been obeyed before spinning to face his Queen. Tasmia! Was Tasmia ...? His eyes widened.

NoNoNoNoNo ... please gods no ... he pleaded silently, his thoughts falling into chaos.

"Lar!"

Pale and shaken, Tasmia Mallor threw herself to her knees, gathering her Consort's still head into her lap with trembling hands.

"Lar ... Lar .. " she choked. "Oh, you great fool! You great, magnificent fool! W-why? Why?"

Lar Gand touched her cheek, then, and she clutched his broad, calloused hand in both her smaller, softer ones and held it there, feeling the swiftly fading warmth and life lingering in his flesh. He smiled in answer.

" ... Keritalyn ... " he whispered.

This site is dedicated to the memory of Dannell Lites, who died unceremoniously on 16 September, 2002, in Kansas City, MO. Other than characters, place names, etc., which are ©DC Comics, Marvel Comics, Warner Bros., WGBS or any other television/movie owner, or Wizard Magazine, all content is ©2002 Dannell Lites. Background set ©2002 by SleepyHead. Please do not use without her permission. Site url= http://dannfan.50megs.com/