It was the curse of the warrior always to be alone. Friends, lovers, companions - all were fleeting, transitory, ultimately irrelevant. A warrior loved only one thing: battle. Why make friends when they would only die? Why fall in love when the burdens of this world would only separate you?
Duty was all that remained. Let the priestlings have their riches and the workers their little pleasures. The warriors had their duty. The rest of the Federation lived and slept and loved all because of them. That was satisfaction enough. The rush of battle, the burden of duty, the weight of the blade.... such was a warrior's life.
Victory and defeat were merely words. How could mere words, how could poets or writers or historians hope to describe the true heart of a warrior, the ultimate triumph of victory and the agonising despair of defeat?
Sonovar had never fancied himself a poet or a writer, and his conceit caused him to label himself a maker of history, not a recorder of it. But he knew.... oh, he knew victory and defeat all too well. He had gloried after Tarolin 2.... and now he despaired.
Weeks passed, moving into months. While the rest of the galaxy dissolved into war, while Proxima 3 adjusted to the new era, while the Narn and Centauri continued to fight, Sonovar did nothing. He moved as a ghost through the corridors of his ship, his eyes haunted, his mind plagued with dark thoughts. He slept poorly, and spoke often to himself.
His war was lost, he knew that now. He had been defeated the instant Sinoval had stolen away his Tak'cha. Once, he had been in a position to dominate the pitiful remains of the Minbari Federation. Now, he was nothing more than a rebel commander in charge of a handful of ships. Those who had followed him were leaving, defectors recognising the futility of their position. Rastenn had left but days ago.
Oh, Takier was still here, and so was Tirivail. Not that she was her old self either. Whatever had happened at Babylon 4 had changed her. It was probably connected to Kozorr's defection. Now that had hurt Sonovar. He had genuinely believed Kozorr would follow him into the grave. Still, why should a man who had broken one oath think twice about breaking a second?
Takier was himself, the same as he had always been. He was a true warrior, the wisdom of experience in his mind, but even he was beginning to bend beneath the burdens he faced. He had had three children - one was dead, another a traitor and the third turned into a living ghost.
It was Takier who had organised the retreat and the fortification of what was left of Sonovar's fleet. He had done so with his customary skill and judgement. Should Sinoval choose to attack, then Takier's defences would hold long enough for a truly glorious death, an epic battle rather than a meaningless slaughter.
Of course, the point was moot. Sinoval was too skilled a tactician to attack. He had no need to. He could sit back and wait. The inrush of those surrendering to him was proof he had won. His offer to 'talk' had proved that. He knew he had won. All he wanted to do now was gloat in his triumph.
'Talk,' Sonovar whispered to himself on one of his long and lonely walks. 'Talk. He is willing to talk.' Willing only to gloat, to glory in his victory. 'Talk.' As if they were priestlings, diplomats.... negotiators! They were warriors. The only words that needed to be spoken came from the blade.
'Talk.'
He returned, as always, to his private sanctum, his place of meditation and training. His pike lay on the floor there. He had not lifted it in weeks. A goblet had been placed by its side, full and ready with the sometimes bitter, sometimes sweet elixir Forell prepared. It was meant to be invigorating and refreshing, but recently it had tasted only of ashes.
'Talk?' he said again. 'Ah, Sinoval....' Sonovar looked into the shadows of his room, and saw the form of his nemesis there. 'Ah, Sinoval.... what is there to talk about?' He drained the elixir. 'What is talk for such as we?'
Then he fell silent. He could not think of anything to say.
Sinoval knew the value of silence. Sometimes, he knew, the most effective words are the ones that go unspoken. He had developed the skill of silence for the purpose of intimidation, but more recently he had put it to other uses. He had turned the skill of not speaking into the art of listening.
He had known in advance of Rastenn's story. It was very similar to those of all the others who had come to him, seeking forgiveness, seeking penance. He would do with Rastenn as he had done with the others - send him to defend Tarolin 2 and the other worlds he controlled. It was time they all learned the value of lifting a weapon to protect, rather than to destroy.
The story was indeed as he had been expecting. He was told of Sonovar's military capabilities, his plans and deployments. He learned of Sonovar's malaise and Tirivail's distractions. He discovered that Takier was practically leading the force now, and that Forell appeared in the darkest of shadows, whispering words of dark portent.
He learned a good many things, some of which were important, some of which weren't.... but when Rastenn finished there was one thing he had not been told, the one thing he most needed to know.
'Tell me,' he said, the first words he had uttered since Rastenn had come to him. 'Why?'
'Holy One?' Rastenn asked, puzzled. That was another unifying factor. All of Sonovar's warriors, captured or defected, referred to Sinoval as 'Holy One', the title he had held as leader of the Grey Council before he had broken it. None of them would ever call him 'Primarch'.
'Why have you left Sonovar and come to me? Am I not your enemy?'
'I....' Rastenn looked down. Sinoval had heard many answers to that question. Some had said that they had realised Sonovar was wrong. Some claimed to have been merely pretending to follow him in order to gather information. Others had replied that they knew it was over and had come to make peace and serve their people.
'I just knew it was right,' Rastenn said finally. 'I heard what you said to Tirivail on Anla'Verenn–veni. It just took too long for the words to touch me.'
Sinoval nodded, and then dismissed Rastenn. He had asked that question of every defector who had come before him, and never yet received an answer he had been satisfied with. He then looked at the two members of the Primarch's Blades who were standing guard, together with the Praetors Tutelary. Minbari warriors and Soul Hunter guardians were watching each other with a wariness that never faded, but had been subsumed by the greater need to protect their Primarch.
He found himself wishing there was someone he could truly talk to. He found himself wishing Kats were here. But of course she was on Tarolin 2, rebuilding there with Kozorr, trying to mend the wounds of their hearts as well as the physical wounds of war. Sinoval was content to leave them there. His attempts to heal Kozorr's injuries had bought the warrior renewed life, but for a few months only. Let the two of them have their present. It was all they would ever have.
He also found himself wishing the Primarch were here. He closed his eyes and remembered the flash of light that had taken the Soul Hunter in the Starfire Wheel. A part of him lived on in the Well of Souls, but it was not the same.
He found himself wishing he could talk to Durhan, his Sech, his teacher. But he was busy, working with the Vindrizi on their sanctuary world and preparing the beginnings of something very special, something for.... afterwards.
He found himself wishing he were a child again, learning at Varmain's feet. He found himself wishing he could remember more of her lessons, more of her words. Alas, all he could recall were her last whispers.
Had Valen blessed him? Would he look back on his life as an old man on his dying day and smile as she had done?
He laughed at the thought. What foolishness! A futile dream of one who had not realised until too late the price of all his decisions. Now he knew, but now it was too late. He was stuck with the burden of his responsibilities.
That, he knew, was why he was moving so slowly. He could have finished Sonovar months ago, destroyed him directly after the loss of the Tak'cha. Even giving the renegade enough time to accept or refuse the offer of negotiations, he could have moved by now. So why had he not? He knew why. He knew what he would have to do after Sonovar was defeated.
He raised his pike, Stormbringer, and looked at it. He had forged it with a part of his own soul, and it had
