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it down on the table, and stands there.
Why are you afraid? You, the dark shadow of Aurore? Not denying his fear, he
walks around the table, stares out the window at the nearest quince tree, the
latest of the generations he has planted, and down at the main house, rebuilt
last year for the fiftieth time since he purchased it from Mrs. Alderson's
estate. After all the years, why now?
He knows the answer. He has felt it on the wind, and in his probes of what
lies beyond the energy field that is Aurore.
 There is a season. . . And after the season of light comes the season of
change. Has he not said so himself?
He replaces the beaker on its shelf and walks back to his sleeping room,
toward the wardrobe and the black tunics and trousers. He dons tunic, then
trousers, and for the first time in many years, instead of the plain black
belt, puts on the one with the triangular silver buckle. The black boots
follow.
Fully dressed, he walks back to the table, regards the envelope.
After a time, he picks it up and touches the flap, which unseals at his touch,
as he knew it would. Three holos tumble out on the table, all landing face up.
Rathe Firien, snub-nosed, red-haired, full-breasted under the clinging tunic,
and friendly, the warmth obvious, as if the holo had been canned the day
before.
Marta Farell, not the stern-faced CastCenter chief, but smiling as if to
welcome her lover, and wearing a golden gown. And. . . at the end, Kryn
Kirsten, daughter of the Grand Duke, golden-eyed and black-haired, in tunic
and trousers of blue shot with threads of gold. Slim like a bitch goddess, and
bitchlike in her own way.
A narrow slip of parchment remains in the envelope. Martel leaves it there as
he studies the pictures. Two dead women, one who loved him, and one who hadn't
Both dead because of him. And a third, possibly the most powerful person in
the Empire of Light, immortal and yet not a goddess, and not on Aurore. The
enigma he has not seen in more than a millennium, her holo in with that of two
dead women.
An obvious conclusion to be drawn, one meant to be drawn. But why now? And by
whom?
Underlying all was the assumption that he would care, that he had to care,
that he could care.
Page 84
ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
The three-dimensional images looking up from the table asked a question, too.
Two of them, at least, and Martel dislikes the question.
Is he going to let someone else die, as he has the other two, because he will
not listen? Or is someone using the question to force you to act? Does it
matter? He shrugs, not sure that it does.
Who knows him well enough to ask the question in such a knifing way? Emily.
She is the only answer.
She is the goddess Dian, but Emily will do. Has always done between them. He
takes the narrow slip from the envelope, reads it.
The No-Name. 2200. My love.
Her love?
He tosses that question into his mental file with all the other unanswered
questions he has ignored over the centuries, knowing that it cannot stay
ignored, not this time.
He looks down at the images of the three women, all beautiful in their own
way, all intelligent, and, in their own way, all dead to him. If you believe
that, Martel, you're crazier than Thor.
He wonders who expressed the thought, then realizes it is his own, not letting
him lie to himself this time.
The stars have changed, and his time has come round at last, rough beast, and
it may be time to slouch forward. . . he does not finish the thought, but,
instead, fingers the slip and lets it burst into flame.
The ashes are light and drift from his fingertips into the still air of the
room and slowly toward the floor.
Martel locks the rear portal onto the porch, as well as the front as he
leaves, for the first time since he originally entered the cottage with Rathe
Firien. He will not be back soon.
The three holos gaze adoringly at the wooden beams of the ceiling above the
table, and the black thunderbolt on the envelope protects them.
A man who is no longer just a man, clad in two black cloaks, one fabric, one
shadow, strides along the coast path toward Sybernal, and those who see him do
not. But they shiver as he passes, not knowing why.
XLIII
In the strictest sense of the word, the old Empire of Man  fell with the
death of the Regent and the succession of the Grand Duke of Kirsten.
Practically speaking, however, the impact was the permanent division of the [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]