Темное, кривое зеркало. Том 5 : Средь звезд, подобно гигантам

he had done nothing for which he should be afraid, but the fear was there regardless. He said nothing.

The Drazi nodded. 'Come.'

They had taken him to this place, a secret place they had constructed in quiet, in silence. It was a place of torture, of screams, of agonies born in nightmares. It was also, for now, a place of sanctuary.

Morden wanted to do something, anything. The Inquisitors had their ships. Surely they were more than a match for any bandit raiders? A message had been sent to the Alliance, but surely there was something to do now?

'No,' the Inquisitor had said, when he had dared broach the subject. 'He is here. We must draw him out into the light.'

'He?' Morden had a sickening feeling he knew who. Only one person could inspire that much hatred in an Inquisitor.

'The Accursed.'

'Sinoval?'

The Inquisitor's hand had suddenly been at his throat, squeezing tightly. Morden felt all the breath leave his body a second after all the warmth left his soul.

The Drazi spoke slowly, flawlessly, dwelling on every syllable.

'You will never speak that name again.'

He had not.

And so all he had to do was wait.

The Second Image:

Durla at her side, Timov looked at the cold, uncomfortable chair in front of her. Durla had been assigned to watch her, although many people might have wondered whether it was for her safety or their own. Few of them, few of the players in the Great Game, would imagine she was equally capable of watching him back.

Besides, for now, they had…. an understanding of sorts.

Londo's bedchamber was well guarded, as many guards as they could spare, but Timov herself had to be here. This was no time to hide. Power had to be wielded and be seen to be wielded, and she could do more here. The Ministers and lords and nobility had fled, some to hide or defend their estates, others to take the fight to the enemy. Timov was alone.

'They will make for the palace, lady,' Durla said. She looked at him. 'If they plan to invade and occupy they will need to secure the palace. If they merely desire plunder they will get more of that here than anywhere else. If they desire destruction, what better place to destroy?'

'I know,' Timov said.

'And you are still here because…?'

'Someone has to be.'

She looked around. The guards were here. Her men, and Durla's. Anyone Durla had chosen to be here now was obviously very deep in their respective conspiracy. Either that or very skilled.

'Do you want to be ready for them when they arrive?' she asked, indicating the throne.

'No, lady,' he replied. 'Your husband still lives and has not yet abdicated. I am not yet Emperor.'

'It must gall you, Durla. You seek more than anything else to restore us to an era of glory, and merely a handful of days after we set each other on that path, we are attacked and threatened.'

It was one of the very rare occasions she had ever seen true emotion in Durla's face. His eyes sparkled. 'My lady,' he said simply. 'The lower we are, the greater the journey to the top. The greater the challenge, the greater the victory.'

Timov nodded, a chill passing through her. This was a man with no understanding of Centauri life, no knowledge of or care for those who would fall.

A problem for another day.

'Well, then,' she said primly. 'It falls to me.'

She ascended the steps and took the throne. All either of them had to do now was wait.

The Third Image:

Moreil spread his arms wide, basking in the joy of righteous chaos.

'Masters, be pleased!' he cried.

'He is a threat,' said the ever-present Narn voice at his side. 'By G'Quan, listen to me, Moreil!'

He turned from the sight of the battle to look at Mi'Ra. For a moment he was mildly irritated, but then he quashed the emotion. Nothing could destroy this feeling of rapture. The spreading of chaos, the winnowing of the weak. This was what he lived for.

'He knows who I am. He must know of our…. understanding. Moreil! Listen to me, damn you! The Wykhheran fear him!'

'The Wykhheran know no fear in battle, but battle is all they understand. It is all they were created for.' Moreil's eyes closed in near ecstasy. 'The glories of battle.'

'Listen, I don't care how good he is. The danger is in what he knows. Send a Faceless after him and it will be over in seconds. No one can withstand a Faceless.'

Moreil smiled. 'You may be proved wrong, but no. The Faceless were created to destroy the cowards, those who wield the reins of power in secret, behind the masks of illusion. Marrago is not one of those. He is a warrior. He will be dealt with as a warrior.'

'You're being too complacent. Where's his ship? Why haven't they joined us yet?'

'Perhaps he is dead.'

'If this fails, Moreil….'

'Then it will fail because we were too weak, and the failure will make us stronger. What else is this about, if not the strengthening and the purifying of the weak?'

'Vengeance,' she hissed. 'It is about vengeance, and if all you care about is battle, why aren't you down there taking part in it, instead of just watching up here?'

'Ah.' Moreil smiled again. 'I am Z'shailyl, and mine is the power to read the ebb and flow of war. I can sense great warriors and great deeds. Somewhere hidden from mortal eyes, hidden even from the eyes of the Faceless, but not from the eyes of the Z'shailyl….

'Hidden somewhere is….'

His eyes gleamed.

'Death.'

* * *

G'Kar spoke to me often, of a great many things. His love for his people, his dreams for the future, his friends and allies. One topic he rarely touched upon was his involvement in the early wars with the Centauri, of the occupation and rebellion where he first rose to prominence as a soldier, not a prophet.

Many years ago I asked him about those times, and his face grew dark. He would not talk about it then, nor for many years to come, but eventually he did, and I knew then just how much those years weighed upon his mind. Not merely for the friends and family he lost. Not even because they reminded him of Da'Kal.

No, it was because those years reminded him of what he had once been. He had killed Centauri without a thought, without a qualm. He had even gloried in it. The death of a Centauri was something to be celebrated. He regretted bitterly that he had felt that way, just as he regretted the creation of a world that had done that to him and to people like him.

But most of all he regretted the way those years had touched and tainted our entire people. Every Narn who had lived through those years had been marked by them and that taint had corrupted their souls all their lives. He once told me that he hoped that my generation, one of the first born since the liberation, would be able to approach the future unshackled by the old hatreds.

He was not optimistic about that possibility, and, sadly, neither am I. But he tried to bring it about until the day he died. Indeed, it was that never-ending dream that caused his death. He tried, always, and so shall I.

L'Neer of Narn, Learning at the Prophet's Feet.