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| Volume 5: Among the Stars, like Giants | Part VII: .... Let No God Tear Asunder |
IT has been over twelve years since he died, struck down by the white Vorlon as the battle raged around the place he had worked so hard to build. As Babylon 5 was surrounded by battle and war and death, John J. Sheridan was killed.
Many people remembered him. Some people mourned him. He had had few friends remaining at the time of his death.
His love, Delenn, had retreated from his side after a confrontation where too much was said and not enough left unsaid. His friend David Corwin had quarrelled with him over too much, hurt and angry and dealing with too many demons of his own.
Many reminisced, some mourned, but no one who had known him forgot.
And Sinoval, he remembered most of all.
He had never liked Sheridan, never, but there had been respect there of a sort. Sinoval had spent many months working to cleanse Sheridan's soul of the Vorlon influence. He had had plans for Sheridan, plans which were rendered moot in the aftermath of his death.
But to one such as Sinoval, death need not be the end. Taboo, or curse, or ancient law notwithstanding, he would let nothing interfere with his plans.
Sheridan's body has been on Minbar, where he was laid to rest. An enchantment prevented its decomposition and it remains as perfect as it was when he died. Sinoval's agents have recovered it, and already it is being transported towards Cathedral.
Sheridan's soul is trapped within the network, jealously guarded by the Vorlons and shielded by their secret masters, the Lords of Death, beings from a far distant universe.
Sheridan's heart.... now that is somewhere else, where not even Sinoval can touch it. Sinoval has tried to win Delenn back to his side, but he has failed, and so he has been forced to turn elsewhere, to someone else.
He acts out of honour, in part, and out of necessity, in full. Someone must lead when he is gone, and there is no one else, no one worthy of the rôle, no one capable of the duty.
Whatever Sheridan might think about the matter, Sinoval does not care.
* * * * * * *
He was watching.
Sinoval could see many things from the pinnacle of Cathedral. He could see the course of the battle, the Dark Stars and the Vorlons holding the line against his attacking forces. None of the Aliens, not yet. They would still be reluctant to meet the First Ones.
Still, there was danger in what was here. The Vorlon ships were powerful, the Dark Stars deadly enough in their own right, and there was the network of course. Kazomi 7 was the centre of a major node, with several passages channelled through the planet. It would take a telepath of extraordinary power to hold such energy together, and if she had not been that powerful when she was implanted into the network, she would be by now.
After all, the Vorlons had enough of an interest in this world to want to keep it well protected.
How is Susan? he asked silently.
She lives. She has found the soul she seeks, but it is guarded by the Enemy, and guarded well.
Can she break through?
She is with powerful allies, but her greatest power comes from within. It will fall to her whether they triumph or not.
"Hmm." Sinoval turned back to the battle, and directed a group of Soul Hunter fighters to counter one of the Dark Stars that seemed ready to force a hole in their line.
She has to succeed. All this has little purpose but to serve as a distraction for her.
She knows that. You will have to trust her.
As you trust me.
What you plan is wrong. Once, yes, was acceptable. Barely. But twice.... you violate laws as old as ourselves.
I do what I have to.
We accept that, because there is no other way.
Someone has to rule the galaxy when this war is done.
What will that matter to us? To you or to us?
I owe him.
Then you do far better to let him sleep in death, or free him into oblivion. To seek to return him to this life is wrong.
Then stop me.
We cannot, as you know. We will permit this. You were given to us to be something different, to serve as the tool needed to win this war. We do not know if you are capable of it, but we do not know if anyone is capable of it, so we will trust to you.
How nice, that you have such faith in me.
You and we are one, ultimately. Do not forget that.
I won't. Believe me.
He turned back to the battle. Things were even, more or less. The power of the network, even corrupted as it was, was keeping the Dark Stars active. If it could be taken down, the battle would be over in seconds.
He smiled to himself. There was no such thing as coincidence, but to find two of the things he most needed at the same place....
Sheridan's soul, trapped inside the network. It had taken him years to discover that, and longer still to learn exactly where he was trapped. Sinoval had feared it was deep within Vorlon space, but no. It was here, at Kazomi 7.
Guarded by the telepath who had once been Lyta Alexander.
* * * * * * *
"We're all going to die."
Delenn watched calmly as the thing formed out of the light. Shapes and faces appeared and disappeared, shifting and swirling in the formlessness. The light still streamed from his face, but it had grown weaker. Now it was not much more than wisps, like smoke.
Her tiredness seemed to have left her now. It was as though her body and soul had become separated, and what affected one did not touch the other. Her resolve was as strong as it had once been - at the beginning.
"What are you?" she asked the formless mass. "This is my place, and you have no right to enter it."
We are Death, came a voice from somewhere inside the mass of light. Each letter seemed to come from a different place. The words echoed from the walls, and from inside the creature itself.
we we we we are are are we are we death death death we are we we are are death death eath eath ath ath th h h
We are your Gods and masters.
we we are
Delenn stared up at it. Her anger now seemed to be a tangible thing. This was the anger of a woman who had once ordered the destruction of an entire race.
"You have no right to be here!" she cried out. "This is a place of peace!"
The only peace is in the grave.
ods and masters peace eace the grave rave ave
"Everyone's dead," the man sobbed. "I killed you. You should be dead."
All things die.
things things die die ie e
"I have been dead, and I have returned. If you think you can kill me, then try, but this is my place, not yours, and your power cannot touch me here."
Nothing can escape our touch.
thing can things die ie e our touch ouch uch ch h
All around her everything was screaming. The sounds seemed very distant, ethereal and insubstantial. Everywhere but her was mad, or maybe everyone was sane and she was mad.
She walked forward, directly beneath the creature. She could see flickering images inside it. A city filled with graves, a black monolith rising into the night, a vast mirror, endless tunnels and passages of light.
It had been lost in the tunnels. It had fled into them years ago and become lost, and now it had found a way out.
It had fled.
That meant it knew fear.
What could make a creature such as this know fear?
Oh.
Of course.
What else?
Or rather, who else?
Her anger grew even more intense. Still he interfered. Still his touch was everywhere.
"You do not belong here!" she roared. "You have no right!"
We go where there is life, and where there is life, we extinguish it.
where there is life life ife fe e
extinguish tinguish inguish
"There is no life here. You have already touched these people. You have given them fear and nightmares. You have killed them just as much as if you had stopped their hearts or torn their heads from their bodies. These people are already dead. Their bodies just continue to move."
It was silent, thinking about that. The background sounds faded away to just one. Cathrenn was sobbing softly.
Yes.
es s s s s
You speak true.
true rue ue e
We shall permit this place to exist.
exist xist ist st t
On our world we created a mausoleum to all the races we ended.
ended nded ded ed d
This place shall serve as our memorial in this existence.
stence tence ence nce ce e
What is your name, dead one? We shall wish to remember it.
emember member ember
She swallowed. "I am Delenn of Mir. Make sure you do remember it."
We shall.
hall all ll l
Then it dissipated into light and tendrils of bright, shining smoke, and became nothing.
Dreamily, Delenn turned round. The noise had stopped. All of it. Cathrenn was sitting against the wall rocking back and forth, but she had stopped crying. The other patients had stopped screaming or speaking.
Even the blind man. He was staring straight at her. She was sure he could see her.
"I killed you," he said, his words surprisingly loud against the silence. "I killed her."
Then, at long last, understanding came.
"Dexter Smith!" she exclaimed.
Then fatigue finally took her, and she collapsed to the floor.
* * * * * * *
For an instant it almost reminded him of home. The ground was different, and the sky, and the mountains in the distance. Everything looked different, as indeed it was, but there was something, something intangible that tweaked memories a decade and a half old.
It took several moments for G'Kar to realise that that intangible was pain.
Centauri Prime was in pain.
L'Neer was looking off across the plains, shielding her eyes from the sun. It was too bright here. There was a look of rapt concentration on her face, and G'Kar almost admired that. It was a nice thing to know, that in some there still existed a sense of wonder.
"We're further away than was planned," she said finally. "I can barely see the city."
"Hmm, yes," Vir replied, looking up from his hand-held commpanel. "There's increased security around the capital. It wasn't like that when I left."
"You said you could smuggle us into the Court."
"I thought I could. It should have been easy enough, but.... hmm. I don't know what's happened. There are ships everywhere, the spaceport seems practically shut down. I wonder if we've declared war on someone and no one's told me." He sighed. He sounded suitably apologetic, but then that was Vir. Everything he said and did came across as an apology.
G'Kar looked at him. Before his unexpected arrival on Dorac 7, it had been many years since he had last met Vir Cotto. He had heard of the young man's ascension of course, but so many of the intricacies of Centauri Court life escaped him.
Still, he had played the game of the Kha'Ri often enough, and well enough, before he had formed the Rangers. It was a game they had learned from the Centauri, and in some respects they had surpassed their teachers.
He could not shake the feeling of unease. This world was in pain. A pain for which he and his people had been at least partly responsible.
But there was something new.
"You cannot hide anything from me," L'Neer said softly. He turned to look at her. "You have to take off your guilt some time."
"When I am dead," he replied bitterly.
"You will live forever."
"I hope not." All those ghosts.... haunting him.
She smiled. "No. I meant your words will live forever. Your ideas. Your beliefs."
"I would far rather people created their own words and their own ideas than follow mine."
"Then tell them that."
"People have a tendency to hear only what they wish to hear. I never desired to be a prophet. Not once."
She smiled slightly. "If you say so, Ha'Cormar'ah." She threw in the title to rile him a little, but also to make him face what he was. Like it or not, he was a prophet, and like it or not, billions would follow his words.
Why else had he spent so long so far away from anywhere?
And why else had he come out of seclusion after so long to visit this, of all places?
"You are thinking about him."
"Thinking about the past," he said, recalling just how astute she could be sometimes.
"About old obligations."
"The first obligation. The strongest."
She looked at him for a long while, and then nodded and turned away. "Tell me whenever you wish."
He was so lost in thought that he did not even notice when Ta'Lon came into sight. He had gone to scout the surrounding area. They were in the foothills of the mountains, on land, as it turned out, owned by Vir.
According to the explanation Vir had given the security officers, he had been away for some days on a matter of private business - not unusual, apparently, in the Court - and rather than submit to the intense security procedures around the capital, he had decided to return to his estates for a few days until it all blew over. This had been accepted, more or less, but G'Kar could see that he was not as confident of an easy resolution to this as he pretended to be.
Of course, they had not landed at Vir's estate building itself. Arrangements had originally been made to smuggle the three Narns into the capital from the spaceport, facilitated by some of Vir's 'connections'. There were no such arrangements here, and the other lords would be bound to have spies among Vir's staff.
G'Kar's head ached. He no longer had the mind for intrigue. Years of solitude had changed him.
Officially the ship had developed mechanical problems, necessitating an emergency landing in the mountains, but that would not last long. Something had to be sorted out, and quickly, or all of them would die, and G'Kar would never get to finish his business here.
His oldest friend. His truest friend. An obligation owed. L'Neer owed one as well, her word given to the man who had given her his name, but G'Kar's ran deeper, far deeper.
This would be the last thing he would ever do, and one of the finest.
"Soldiers," Ta'Lon was saying, and G'Kar looked up, roused from his reverie. "Scouting around the area. Quite a lot. Imperial Guard, by the look of it. The captain was wearing a badge something like an Inquisitor's, but with the Imperial symbol behind it."
Vir paled. "That means he was trained by the Inquisitors. He'll be a member of the Ministry of Internal Security. They have the right to mobilise the Imperial Guard against threats to the Republic or the Alliance. Shadow creatures, insurrectionists, rebels, Sinoval, Marrago, us.... They only answer to Mr. Morden. Oh, this is not good."
"Well, they'll be here in less than an hour. Did they know we were coming?" Ta'Lon asked.
"I don't see how. I kept my departure secret, bribed all the right people, called in some blackmail material. The Emperor himself helped, granted me official authorisation. Oh, this is not good."
"This is your land," Ta'Lon snarled. "Do something."
"Yes.... something.... yes."
G'Kar looked at Vir, and he knew that there was nothing he could do.
* * * * * * *
The destruction of the Brakiri colony world of Kara marked the beginning of the last phase of the war. Despite the lull in the fighting during 2269, both Primarch Sinoval and the Cult of Death among the Vorlon High Command must have known that there would be no peace, and both sides simply used the year as an opportunity to gather their forces.
Although Sinoval was undoubtedly the prime mover of the war, he spent a great deal of it hidden from the public eye. For every spectacular and public action such as the Battle of Babylon 5 in 2263, or Vreetan in 2269, there were long months of silence. His agents were active, but he himself was concealed.
Tracking his movements during those years is a difficult task, heavily reliant on hearsay and rumour. One of the most mysterious events of the war, and certainly one of the most curious, took place mid-way through 2270, at the Centauri colony world of Immolan 5.
Centauri worlds were suffering. Jorah Marrago, their former Lord-General, was busily working his way through them, one planet at a time. He was not as quick as Marrain or as tenacious as Kulomani and Vizhak, but he was by far their superior when it came to tactical thinking. He moved deliberately, destabilised the political and economic structure of each world, then took it with a swift and sudden display of military force. He was then careful to secure the planet and his own supply lines before he set his sights on his next target.
By and large his plans were successful. Initially the bulk of his forces consisted of the remnants of the Brotherhood Without Banners, aided here and there by Marrain's Tak'cha and such other ships as Sinoval could spare. However, almost all the communities he either conquered or liberated (depending on one's point of view) were happy to join forces with him, and by 2270 he commanded a substantial fleet of Centauri vessels. Following the Vree Rebellion, he flatly refused to accept any aid from Moreil.
By that time almost two-thirds of the Centauri Republic was in Marrago's hands. The Republic and the Vorlons mounted some counterattacks, but these were sporadic and half-hearted. The Vorlons had never had a high regard for the Centauri, and they had other troubles to worry about. In addition, Sinoval himself avoided taking an active rôle in the Centauri campaign, probably a deliberate ploy to distract the Vorlons from Marrago's exploits. Mr. Morden, Commander of Alliance operations on Centauri Prime, was severely under-resourced and under-supported, and was reduced to a series of rearguard actions.
Eventually both Morden and Marrago turned their attention to Immolan 5. This colony was some way from Centauri Prime, and of little strategic importance, having been developed in happier times as a holiday retreat for Centauri nobles. Its very insignificance made it attractive to Morden, who, anticipating that Centauri Prime might fall to Marrago in less than a decade, began secretly to transfer his base of operations there. The planet was far removed from Marrago's pattern of attack, and Morden believed it would be ignored.
Morden arranged for Emperor Mollari and the Lady Consort Timov to undertake a goodwill tour of the colony, in preparation for the transfer of power. What he was not prepared for was that Timov, a shrewd woman beneath her acid exterior, would uncover his real intentions, and somehow get the information to Marrago.
Moving with uncharacteristic speed, Marrago sent a raiding party to swoop down on Immolan. According to L'Neer, whose account of the Immolan Incident is agreed to be the most accurate, G'Kar and Sinoval were anxious to extricate Emperor Mollari from the clutches of the Alliance in order use him as a figurehead for the 'liberated' worlds, and to this end they pressurised Marrago into his precipitate action. Timov and her accomplice Durla Antignano were happy to co-operate, and while Marrago's raid provided a distraction, a force infiltrated the colony to capture or rescue the Emperor.
Matters soon became complicated, and the sequence of events is not entirely clear. Sinoval himself was involved, although there are no reports of him accompanying either the Emperor or the rescue force. The gubernatorial palace on Immolan was virtually razed to the ground, and it was subsequently impossible to ascertain if any items had been stolen.
L'Neer recounts a confrontation between G'Kar and Londo in the capital city, in which Londo refused to abandon his people, even in the face of almost certain death. He declared that he was resolved to die as Emperor, not as a puppet figurehead, and maintained that he could still do some good in that position.
Some of Marrago's soldiers were in favour of abducting the Emperor by force, as indeed was Timov. Although G'Kar was opposed to this course of action, it was in fact attempted. However, the Emperor had not enjoyed good health since his heart attack in 2263, and in the stress and confusion he suffered a recurrence of the condition. Unable to attend to him adequately, the rescue force was obliged to leave him behind, and Timov chose to remain with him. G'Kar and his companions succeeded in escaping, as did Sinoval. Emperor Mollari survived, but his already fragile health deteriorated, and this event marked the beginning of his recission from the public face of Centauri politics.
The Immolan Incident had further repercussions. Timov's covert support of Marrago's forces came to light as a direct result, and on her return to Centauri Prime she was immediately arrested and imprisoned. There were rumours that she had been executed, but these were never confirmed. Her accomplice Durla Antignano managed to avoid arrest, and continued to wage a guerilla campaign against the Alliance. A year or so after this G'Kar and L'Neer began their period of self-imposed exile on Dorac 7.
The plans to move the Government to Immolan came to nothing, and Marrago captured the planet early the following year. Despite his frequent requests, no help was sent to Morden, and he was forced to defend his ever-diminishing Republic almost entirely unaided.
Williams, G. D. (2298) The Great War: A Study.
* * * * * * *
It was like watching Gods at war.
Susan Ivanova was not the type to be easily intimidated. The things she had seen in her life were enough to drive almost anyone mad. She had known the First One and the Well of Souls. She had been the object of one of Sinoval's rages, when he had burned with a heat that could have ignited dead suns. She had seen a dead world return to life, and several living worlds die. She had faced Shadows and Vorlons and even the creatures from beyond this universe. But she had never, never before in her life felt so completely outclassed.
The Aliens were there, as terrifying and as dark as she had always known them to be. And she knew why, in one sudden moment of inspiration. They could sense the enchantment that Sinoval had woven about Sheridan. The enchantment had been to his body, but it had bound his soul as well. Sheridan had known the touch of Vorlon and Soul Hunter and, through Susan herself, Shadow. They could not help but be drawn to that, to wait and watch.
Talia had erupted into a blind fury at the sight of them, emerging from her hiding place into the chamber, dark lightning crackling all over her form. Her eyes were black as she roared out her fury, throwing bolts of lightning into the Alien bodies.
Bester was beside her, his one good arm resting on her shoulder, giving her strength. Even though they were souls adrift from their bodies, some of the physical still remained. Some things can never be taken away, no matter how much one loses or how much one gains.
And what could Susan do? Her telepathic powers were negligible. She had next to no training and it was all she could do simply to stay put. She did not belong here.
So why had she come?
She watched as the Aliens moved towards Talia, their long spiked tentacles lashing out. They were more real here than she was. She knew that these were the Aliens who had fled into the network after the terror at Proxima, driven away before Sinoval.
Susan still remembered that battle. She still dreamed about it. The black clouds in the sky, the Domes cracking and shattering, the Aliens rising from the ashes of the Edgars Building, Sinoval crying out as he charged towards them. She still heard their terrible cry as they spread death and madness wherever they flew.
But Sinoval and she had triumphed, and better than that, they had survived.
And she had got Sinoval out of the gateway. Wounded, delirious, half-dead. She had got him out.
And that had been before she had seen the alien artifact that had boosted her psi-powers even to this negligible level.
She smiled. Sinoval had a saying: 'It matters not how sharp the blade, but how finely it is wielded.'
She remained hidden and looked around, taking in very quick glances, looking for nothing in particular, looking for a pattern. Around her raged the chaos of Talia and Bester's battle with the Aliens. She could hear Talia's furious psi-screams that threatened to call everything within miles down upon their heads.
These are my people! You trapped my people!
And, softer, more muted, an echo of that cry:
Mother!
Susan kept looking, and gradually details began to emerge, slowly, one piece at a time. There were things she recognised, a little memory here and there, a sound there, an image here.
The gentle memory of one mind brushing against hers.
She hardly remembered it at all. She had hardly remembered it just after it had happened. She had been ill, insane with injuries and time travel and a confusing and ultimately soul-saving conversation with David. She had been comatose, wishing silently for death.
It had happened then, the merest brush of one mind against hers.
A debt of honour.
She remembered further back. A man she had not known in almost twenty years. Tall, handsome, with black hair and a black beard, his chest smashing and his heart breaking, a man who had only dreamed of becoming a knight.
A man she had killed.
Lyta, she whispered. Lyta, are you here?
It could hardly be heard over the sound of the battle, over the shouting and the raging and the terrible, soft whispers of the Aliens, but she thought there was a reply - a gentle groaning, like a breath being exhaled.
Lyta.... Do you remember me?
Another one, a bit louder. She was sure she had heard that.
Lyta, do you remember Marcus?
Another one, louder still. Another breath.
Lyta, do you remember yourself?
There was a groan, and the walls of the chamber moved, contracting and separating.
All of them had noticed her now. Talia seemed to be hurt. She was not flying as powerfully as before, and one of her arms was hanging limp. The lightning seemed less clear, less strong.
The Aliens moved in Susan's direction, as swift as the wind, as terrifying and monstrous as the hurricane. The full fury of their attention was focussed on her now.
We are Death incarnate and you are nothing but an insect. The other has some power but not enough and you have less than that. You are beneath us little child, nothing but the dust on our path. Your life has been naught but a whisper on our breeze and your death will be nothing but a mark on a stone beneath our sky.
All that, all that hatred and loathing and power and arrogance, conveyed to her in a single thought.
She had only time for one thought herself before they reached her.
Fortunately, it was the right thought.
LYTA!
Then the walls collapsed, and light burst in and filled everything and she lost all sight and all sound and all memory.
* * * * * * *
Understanding came to the prisoner then. Understanding, and memory, and the remembrance of who she was and where she was and why she was.
There was pain, yes, but that was a price of consciousness, and one she was willing to pay. She blinked, feeling the muscles in her body cry out as she moved.
She was bound, but the greatest bonds were those of the spirit, not of the flesh, and these had already been sundered.
She could see them all: ships and spirits and crying, grieving ghosts.
They must be free.
She pulled her hands free from the tendrils that bound her. They had become brittle and dry and they crumbled into ash.
She stumbled and collapsed as she staggered out of the alcove where she had been kept. She did not know how long she had been there, but her muscles had atrophied from lack of use. For a moment she was content to lie there, helpless and all but paralysed, but resolve heightened her will. She had lain insensate for too long.
She had a great deal to do.
She was aware of something else as well, a fragile, tiny, globe of light held tightly within her heart. There was a voice and a mind and a heart therein, and she knew what it was.
She called out with her mind, and tried desperately to crawl towards the door. Her legs could not bear her weight, but she tried.
She had made all of five feet in the twenty minutes it took Talia to find her.
* * * * * * *
Now?
Not yet. He has won here and now. That does not matter. His victory will be short-lived once he is gone. Victory will make him wary for a time, but reckless thereafter. We will strike when he is distracted.
And what after that?
After he is dead?
Yes.
We will continue to serve. You are blessed. It is rare the likes of us are given such a great and holy duty to fulfill for our Masters. For twelve years I have prepared for our second meeting, and I shall be ready. And this time, I have a still greater advantage.
Me?
You. Come. We will be able to smuggle ourselves on to Cathedral. The Well of Souls will not spy us. Not now. He will be keeping it too busy for that.
And then?
We wait. Until the time is right.
* * * * * * *
"You would be Moreil, I imagine."
The Z'shailyl did not reply, but Morden knew it was him. Who else could it be? Morden took especial care to be aware of all potential enemies of the Centauri, and Moreil was not far from the top of the list.
Morden knew all about Moreil's actions during the Gorash and Frallus campaigns: his first assault against the Vree to win their aid for Sinoval, and his second, unauthorised, retributive strike against them for their betrayal.
He was aware of the secret actions Moreil had undertaken since then. None against the Centauri, none at Marrago's urging. Footsteps so slight they left little trace and no name, but that very stealth, that very secrecy, that pointed to few enough people.
And now he was here.
Moreil bore no weapon, but he had no need of one. His claws were dripping with the blood of the guard he had killed. His reflexes were astonishingly fast, his strength much greater than a mere human's. He was of a race that had been trained to kill and slaughter by the Shadows for thousands of years.
Morden stepped back slowly, very slowly. It would not do to have Moreil attack him instantly. The Z'shailyl kept pace with him, his large dark eyes glinting.
"There does not need to be any violence here," Morden said, continuing to back off very carefully towards the throne. He had not been sitting there when he addressed the guard. The throne was uncomfortable and reserved for only the most formal occasions.
The Z'shailyl twitched, and Morden thought he was smiling.
Morden kept moving backwards, keeping a very close and careful eye on where Moreil was stepping. There were secrets in this palace that few people knew. No one knew them all, but Morden fancied he knew more than most.
All it would take would be one movement at the right time, but would he be quick enough? He was no longer a young man, and he had never been quick or strong. He preferred speed of mind to speed of body, but this was a time when he would need both.
"There may be," he said, slowly and precisely. Anything to draw Moreil's attention, to prevent him from lunging into the killing blow. "A way that we can.... come to an arrangement."
"No bargains," the Z'shailyl hissed. Morden winced inwardly at his voice, although naturally he did not let it show. Like fingernails rasping across slate. "No words, no arrangements.
"Only death, and Chaos."
There.... almost at the right place. Morden was a handful of feet from the throne. Could he chance it now, or would he have a little more time?
Moreil continued to glide forward, gracefully and elegantly.
No. No more time. This would be fine enough as it was.
Morden threw himself backwards, not caring how he landed. His left arm was flung outwards, and his shoulder banged on the edge of the throne. The impact knocked the breath from him, but his flailing fingers managed to find the catch, and he pressed it once.
The floor beneath Moreil's feet opened up. An old trap, one the Lady Timov had ordered re-opened. Morden had found it, and modified it slightly. An old catch, hidden on the throne, had been re-engineered to open the pit.
With the speed of a snake, Moreil leapt into the air, arms spread wide, and landed effortlessly on the rim of the pit.
Despite the pain in his shoulder, Morden burst into action, charging forward. He had not half the grace or finesse of the Z'shailyl and he knew little of hand-to-hand fighting, but now he needed neither grace nor finesse nor knowledge.
All he needed to do was to barge into Moreil.
The Z'shailyl met him, striking out with one hand. The claws tore into the side of Morden's face, sending blood ballooning into the air, turning his vision crimson. Morden could not see, but his momentum kept him going. Moreil was forced backwards, and this time he could not keep his balance.
Morden stumbled and fell, his upper body dangling precariously over the edge. The pit was not deep, but the bottom was studded with spikes, and it had been built to hold Centauri. Lady Timov had killed a Tuchanq with it, but even they were not the Z'shailyl.
There was a hiss of pain and Morden knew that some of the spikes had caught Moreil. Some, but not enough. He was torn between trying to pull himself back from the edge, and trying to clear the blood from his eyes, when he felt a sharp pain in his wrist. His arm was dangling over the edge, and Moreil had caught it.
There was a tug, and Morden felt himself sliding into the pit. He kicked out, desperate to find something to hold on to. His free arm flailed around, seeking something to grasp.
It touched something cold and hard and splashed with blood. His hand closed around it before he even knew what it was.
The hilt of the dead guard's kutari.
He had not drawn it when he had died, but the force of Moreil's blow had knocked it from its sheath, almost clear across the hall.
Morden struck out wildly, reaching down into the pit. It was only by locking his feet around the legs of the throne that he managed to avoid falling in. Moreil was not pulling him as fast or as hard as he had expected, and he knew that the spikes were doing their work, but it did not matter. Sooner or later he would fall, and then he and Moreil would die together.
And all he had was the sword.
He remembered something he had learned once about the kutari of the Place Guard. They were forged specially, different from all the others. The metal came from the Frallus system, from a moon of one the more isolated planets. It was corellium, harder than anything else in Centauri space, and the swords were especially sharp, and unbreakable.
Easily capable of cutting through flesh and bone.
Morden knew what he must do, and that resolve lent him both strength and skill. He brought the sword down again, but this time he did not aim for Moreil, but for himself.
The sword severed his arm below the elbow. There was surprisingly little pain, but a lot of blood. The pressure from the pit ceased, and he pulled himself back as quickly as he could.
Then the pain hit him, and he cried out. His breath was harsh and ragged, coming in great gasps. He knew he needed medical attention immediately, or he would be in very real danger of bleeding to death, but there was one thing he had to do first.
Swaying, almost toppling over, he walked to the pit and looked in.
Moreil was there, lying at the bottom, his body pierced by several spikes. He held Morden's arm, cradling it like a baby. His eyes were open, and they were staring up with malevolent hatred.
"I curse you, human," he hissed.
He was dying. That was good. Morden slumped back against the base of the throne.
He would have to go and get help.
Soon.
Yes, soon.
* * * * * * *
"I am not dead," she whispered.
Some of the memories had come back to her in the time she had lain there, body atrophied and near-comatose. She had found more and more of them, and each one awakened another. She remembered David Corwin, and their first and last night together, and she remembered the reason she had had to leave him.
"Of course you are not dead," he replied. "Believe me. I would know."
She had to find Sinoval.
It had taken her.... how long? Time had passed so differently for her in the network that she would not have been surprised to learn it was a handful of weeks, or centuries. The figure of fourteen years had surprised her. In some ways it was too long, and in others, not long enough.
And here he was. Seemingly carved from stone. She did not need to use her telepathy to read him. He projected everything. Stone and iron. She did not think she would want to read his innermost thoughts even if she could.
"You are Sinoval," she whispered again.
"I am."
The battle had been over by the time she had emerged from the network. With the strength of her node down the Dark Stars had collapsed, rudderless and directionless. The Vorlons had retreated, ready to fight another day. It had been easy.
Sinoval did not trust that. Nothing of value ever came easily.
Lyta found herself agreeing with him.
"I came to join you.... I wanted to come and look for you."
"I know. David Corwin told me. Some things slipped past the blocks you erected around his mind, but not everything."
"The...?" That came back, too. The wards. She had made him forget. Not everything, but enough. That last night. His near-suicide, her coming back to save him, what they had done. "He does not know? Wait.... is he alive? Well? Where is he?"
"Many questions," he noted dryly. "He lives, and he is as well as can be expected. I have not seen him for some years, but I have heard from my agents that he is alive. He is on Proxima, and no, he does not remember. Not everything. My commendations on the blocks, by the way. Very elegantly done."
"Thank you," she whispered. She was cold, almost freezing. She had been given a cloak, and even with it wrapped tightly around her, she still felt cold. Cathedral seemed to be made of nothing but stone and iron and dead voices. She could hear them. It was the perfect place for someone like Sinoval.
"You wanted to serve me?"
"I wanted to defeat the Vorlons. I wanted to fight them."
"You can. There is a service I need from you."
"You don't waste time."
"I cannot afford to. Time is running through my fingers like sand from a broken glass. I need something that only you can provide."
"You got me out of there, and you're fighting the Vorlons. Then, yes, I'll do whatever you say."
"Kind words. Unwisely if irrevocably spoken. You should rest first. I am expecting a.... delivery. When it is here I will need to conduct a ritual. I will require you for that. Until then, rest. I believe you will need it."
"What do you need me for?"
"Delenn."
One word.
She screamed as all the memories surged back into her. Delenn. Friend, companion, near-sister. They had shared a link, a sharing of minds and almost of souls, as close as two people could possibly be. She remembered it had been severed when the Vorlons had taken her. She doubted Delenn would have felt anything, but she had. It had hurt her and she had screamed for.... hours? Days? Years?
"Delenn...."
Memories. Talking, mainly. Sharing dreams, and hopes. She had spoken of Marcus, and David. She had explained to Delenn how a human woman's body worked. They had shared so much.
"Delenn...."
And now....
Something emerging from the darkness, a terrifying, inhuman creature, a monster from nightmare. She had seen them before but she had never imagined they might be real.
"Delenn...."
Pain, injuries to both body and spirit. A battle. Death....
"Danger," she gasped. "Delenn's in danger."
That was the nearest to panic she had ever imagined Sinoval could be.
"What? She is still alive?"
Her breath came more slowly, and she nodded. "Over.... it's over. She's alive. Hurt, but.... something tried to kill her."
Sinoval breathed out slowly. It was the first breath she had seen him take. "Less time than I thought. Rest, Lyta Alexander. Meditate. Recover your memories and your strength. I will call for you when the time is right, and then....
"You will need to be ready.
"Neither of us will have a second chance."
* * * * * * *
There were just the two of them now, standing on the hill outside Yedor, staring up into space. Just the two of them, and no more.
Tirivail had arranged for Marrago to leave. He had taken Sheridan's body and departed, gone to his own war and his own planet, gone to set foot on his homeworld for the first time in a decade and a half.
Marrain still bore the red scars of the morr'dechai. Tirivail knew better than to ask him about them. She understood what they were, if not quite what they meant.
"Up there somewhere," Marrain whispered. "Far above us. Valen's idea. Yet another of his bad ideas. A lord should walk amongst his people, be seen by them, be one with them, not float far above their heads, reigning as a God."
Tirivail shivered.
"You sound like my father," she whispered.
He said nothing, and simply continued to stare upwards.
"He never wanted to be on the Grey Council's ship. He preferred to live here. He started living up there.... a few years ago, I think. I do not know what changed him, but until he did.... he sounded like you. You sound like him."
"My lady."
She turned to look at him, and a chill passed through her.
"I am not your father."
She turned away.
"Do you have a way to get us there?"
"No. My order has never been formally sanctioned. To my father, we are nothing but renegades and outlaws. He called me a foolish child playing at war."
No reply from Marrain.
"We have ships of course, but no way to gain access to the Grey Council's ship. My father has sealed it off entirely. No one enters. No one leaves."
Still nothing.
"He never forgave me for leaving the hierarchy of the warrior caste. He could not understand that I had to find my own way. I have done so much more good as I am now than I ever did then. I protect my people better than I ever could have in space."
Still nothing.
"I hate him."
"No. You do not."
She turned back.
"He fills your thoughts, directs your every action. Everything you do is a means to gain his approval. You will never gain it, no matter what you do, but you will continue living in the hope of those few words of pride."
"You are wrong."
"My father died when I was a child. I only knew him as a cold and distant figure, who rarely spoke to me. His name was Murgain. Throughout my childhood I strove to make him proud of me, but when I became a man I realised that, even if he were still alive, I could never have won his approval.
"So I strove to become a man that I could be proud of.
"It is a lesson you should have learned for yourself many years ago. I would have taught it to you, if you had only wanted me to."
"And it is so easy for you? A thousand years of wisdom? What did your life teach you? How to betray your lord, your friends? They still call you the Betrayer even today, and they call your lord the Accursed."
"Words. Air. Nothing more. There is much in my life that I regret, but none of the things you describe. I do not regret killing Parlonn, for it was a fight such as could shake history, the climax of both our lives. I do regret that he did not kill me, but I was simply better, and that was all there was to it.
"I do not regret betraying Valen. He was not worth my service, and he was not worth the leadership of my people. I do regret ever swearing to serve him at the beginning, and I do regret hurting Derannimer.
"I regret that Berevain loved me and I did not love her as she desired. I regret that it took so long for me to realise that I did love her, in a way.
"I regret that I have never told Jorah how much his friendship means to me, and that I will never see him again. I know this. Call it a prophecy if you will. Once he sets foot on his homeworld again, he will never leave it.
"And I do regret not being able to help you. Twelve years ago, at Golgotha, I could have helped you. I should have tried harder, but I did not, and that I regret, and now it is too late."
She recoiled from him. He had spoken in the flat monotone he used when he was not joking. His true personality, the one that always lurked beneath the jokes and the jests and the flirtation.
Earth. Stone. Iron. Mountain.
The Betrayer.
"We do not have a great deal of time, but we have some. We will need to meditate and rest. We will obtain a ship, and we will go to the Grey Council. Gather as many of your followers as you think fit."
"What about your followers?"
"This I must do alone. They have another purpose now. They have Jorah's."
"We will not be permitted entry to the Grey Council's ship. No one is."
"I am Marrain son of Murgain of the Wind Swords. I am the sworn servant of Primarch Sinoval the Accursed. I am the Betrayer, and the monster of a thousand years of tales.
"I need no one's permission to go anywhere."
His voice remained the same, but his eyes....
They burned.
* * * * * * *
"Did I wake you?"
Sinoval almost smiled. Almost.
"I do not sleep. You know that."
"I wish I did not have to. We almost destroyed that ship getting here."
"But you managed it. I never doubted you."
"I did. I doubted you all this time. Marrain explained your decision to me, and I still doubted that it made any sense. Then I saw that woman. The Oracle. Did you know she would be there?"
"I.... suspected as much."
"Was this worth it?
"Yes."
"Then that will have to do. I see you won."
"I always win. Almost always. Yes, we won. I have people on the surface, cleaning up the mess. I have too much to attend to up here. I have this to attend to."
"I have to go now. My home.... I have to go."
"I understand. I will provide you with a ship to get you to your troops. Good fortune, Jorah."
"That's the first time I can remember you calling me by my name."
"Titles are easy things, are they not? They separate you from what truly is, and bury you in history and image and legend."
"I would imagine they do, Primarch."
Marrago stepped forward and took Sinoval's arm. He clasped it for a moment, and then turned to leave.
Sinoval watched him go, and then turned to the altar where he had ordered Sheridan's body to be laid.
Now.
He sent for his Soul Hunters and Lyta. They did not have much time.
* * * * * * *
It was hot.
Everything outside her cell seemed to be hot. It could be the fires, but she thought it was probably just the air. She had been a long way underground, after all.
Timov tried hard not to let the heat discomfort her, but she was not having much success. The creature guiding her did not seem bothered one way or the other. In fact, it did not seem bothered by much of anything. She had to keep her eye on it or it would fade into the shadows, almost disappearing from sight.
The capital was burning. Again. The city had been attacked and burned so many times now that she hardly recognised it as the city of her youth. For a moment emotion and fear threatened to overwhelm her, but then she pulled herself together. She was a lady of the court and sole consort of Emperor Mollari II. She was also the only hope Centauri Prime had. She could not allow herself to succumb to frailty or weakness.
Finally they came to a large mansion on the outskirts of the city, high above it on the fourth hill of the capital. From here she could see that the damage was not as widespread as she had feared. Only one quarter of the city seemed to be ablaze, and much of that had been put out. She had to give Mr. Morden credit - if he was indeed still running things. At least he was efficient.
The Faceless bade her enter, and she did so, lifting up the ragged hem of her dress. The entrance hall was.... sparse, but it was undeniably a nobleman's house.
"My lady!" called a joyous voice, and she turned. Durla was there. He was dressed in his military uniform, but he was far from the dashing soldier she had once known. His face was blackened with soot and covered with scratches.
"Durla...." she began. "I mean, Lord Antignano. Am I to assume you are behind this?"
He smiled, and her hearts nearly skipped a beat. He really was very handsome, and she had been alone in a dark room for a very long time. She steeled herself. She was the first lady of the Republic. Now more than ever she needed an iron will.
"I swore to myself I would get you out of there, my lady. My apologies it has taken so long."
"None necessary." She looked behind him. The air seemed to be shimmering. She swallowed. Her throat was dry. "Is my husband still...." Alive? "Well?"
She remembered the last time she had seen him. Sick and grey and collapsing to the floor. Five years of not knowing. Five years of wondering if she would ever know.
"My lady...."
"Is he well?"
"He is alive, my lady. Seldom seen in public these days, and frequently ill, but he is alive. He was last sighted outside the palace at the Victory Festival a few months ago."
She sighed visibly with relief. Oh, dear Londo. You stupid, stupid man.
"Have no fear, my lady. You and he will be able to enjoy many years of comfortable retirement together."
Those words spurred her. "You have not answered my first question, Lord Antignano. Are you responsible for this?"
"I had to find allies somewhere. Moreil and his followers were cast aside by Sinoval. I was able to.... secure their services. They are not much of an army, but they are very effective when it comes to causing upheaval."
"Yes," she said, the words tasting like acid in her throat. "I am sure they are. Where are we, by the way?"
"The home of one of the members of the Centarum. I had him killed. He was far too pro-Alliance. He will not be missed, and this makes an excellent base of operations."
"So. Do you have any further plans?"
He laughed out loud. "Ah, my lady. You are just as I remembered. You could out-talk the First Emperor himself while wearing only rags and dirt. I have missed you."
She tried not to blush like a girl as she looked down at her clothes. Her dress was ragged, and she was very dirty. The cell had not been the cleanest of places. "A bath would not go amiss," she admitted, "and nor would a change of clothes. How much time do we have?"
"Enough, I hope. I have sent someone to deal with Mr. Morden, and I do not want to take any action until I am sure of his success. After that.... we can talk later."
"Then you do have plans?"
"Of course. I have been waiting for this moment for five years."
"And? What do you intend to do?"
"Enter the palace. And kidnap the Emperor."
* * * * * * *
It was cold. Everything seemed to be ice. Every breath of air, every stone beneath her feet. It did not feel real. None of it did. Were it not for the memory of her meeting with Sinoval Lyta would have thought it was all a dream, just another illusion crafted by the network.
Everything was an illusion. She thought she had escaped once before. She remembered an explosion, and heat and sound and fury and her bonds crumbling, and flying away down tunnels and corridors.
But they had caught her. They must have done. She remembered being surrounded by them, by things that whispered of death. They had set her to guard something and....
It could all have been a dream. Or this could be a dream.
Nothing seemed real. Nothing.
She shivered and turned over, trying to go to sleep. Sleep would not come of course, and she was not sure she wanted it to. She had been asleep for a very long time.
There was a sound at the door. A knock or a chime or something. She sat up, pulling her cloak around her.
"Who is it?"
The door opened, and in walked someone she was sure she knew. Human. Female. Dark hair streaked with grey. A pattern of scars down one side of her face.
Lyta knew her. She remembered those scars. She....
She had been the one who had given them to her.
"Susan," she said, the name returning to her.
"That's me," came the reply. "I wanted to see how you were."
"You've changed."
"Believe me when I say yes. I've been through a lot since the last time we met."
"We met.... Yes. There was a fight, and a man. Marcus.... And...."
A look of pain flashed across Susan's face. "That was a long time ago."
"No.... I saw you after that. You were asleep.... exhausted. I.... Oh God, it's all coming back. I wanted to kill you. I was going to kill you. I had a gun and.... I went into your mind, and I saw....
"I couldn't do it. I wanted to so much, but I just couldn't."
Susan's face went pale. "I never knew that," she whispered. "I don't remember much of anything that happened then, after Babylon Four. I never knew that."
"I could be mis-remembering, but I don't think so." Lyta shivered again. "I know some of what happened while I was in the network. David. He's still alive, isn't he?"
"Yes. He's still alive."
"Oh, good. Sinoval said, but I wasn't sure...."
"Wise. Every word he says is true - usually. But it isn't always the truth you think it is."
"And is he.... is he involved with anyone? He's the only person I can think of I really want to talk to. Everyone else is dead or missing or changed so much. He...."
She stopped, noticing the expression on Susan's face.
"He thought you were dead. He told me you'd gone to see Sinoval, and when he didn't hear anything.... he just assumed you were dead. He didn't say anything about the two of you being.... together."
"He forgot," she whispered, emptily. "I made him forget. But.... you took him! It wasn't enough you had to take Marcus, you took David as well."
"I didn't know! And we both thought you were dead! It's been fourteen years!"
"Sinoval knew. He must have known."
"Were you really counting on him to tell me anything?"
"Just go. Leave me alone."
"I helped get you out of the network, remember. I didn't have to. I was scared to death most of the time."
"And I didn't kill you when I should have. I think that makes us even."
"Why are you...?"
"Go! Just go!"
She was about to say something, another angry retort, when a Soul Hunter appeared out of nowhere. The first Lyta noticed was the faint glint of light from the stone in his forehead, and then he was there.
He bowed.
"The Primarch has need of you both."
* * * * * * *
Is it done?
It is done. You have done well.
What happens now?
Our Primarch does this, and then he returns to war. To the end of war.
What do I do now?
Information was promised for your assistance. Do you remember?
Yes.... No.... Some things are coming back to me, but it has taken so long.... so very long. Tell me.
Are you sure?
Yes. Tell me. What did I want to know?
Where your body is.
Ah. Of course. And where is it?
The Vorlon homeworld. It has a name.
What is it?
It is unpronounceable in your language, but to them, it means Heaven.
Heaven.... I like that. What must I do now?
That we cannot tell you. You must know for yourself.
You are right. I know what to do. Thank you, voice.
It was payment for a service rendered. As we have said, we very much desire to have you among us one day.
That may have to be arranged. Heaven.... heh.
* * * * * * *
Before the destruction of Kara the Brakiri race had been a relatively minor player in the affairs of the galaxy. They had never been a warlike people, and the main concern of the Merchant-Lords was the dire effect of the conflict on their legendary economy. Nevertheless, the personal charisma of Kulomani, their tight alliance with the Drazi and fear of reprisals from Sinoval had ensured their continued involvement in the war.
However, by the end of 2269, many of these issues were less pressing. Zhabar had been retaken from the Alliance the year before, and both Kulomani and the Drazi seemed content with that. The Drazi command's main effort was concentrated on the bloody ground battle to consolidate their hold over the planet, and there were no plans for any more extended space campaigns. As for Sinoval, he had not been seen in public for some years, and it was becoming clear that Moreil had been dismissed from his service.
Then came Kara, and the Merchant-Lords abandoned any thoughts of disengagement. Over two billion of their people had been butchered, and no Brakiri would rest until the creatures responsible were dealt with.
In an astonishing feat of economic planning, they increased their military spending tenfold in a matter of six months, producing a record growth in the size of their fleet. Forces along their borders were doubled, tripled in places. Their scientists developed innovative and advanced planetary defence systems, and the weaponry fitted to their new capital ships - named the Kara-class - could destroy Dark Stars and even Vorlon capital ships. Whatever technology the Brakiri could not devise for themselves, they either bought, bartered for, or stole.
All this took some time, however, and it was early in 2271 before their new fleet was fully operational. Their first action was to assist the beleaguered Zhabar, and support was also provided to other allies. Marrago used a battalion of Kara-class ships in his consolidation of Immolan, and Marrain was happy to employ some of the new scout ships in his raids against Alliance controlled worlds.
Naturally, the Brakiri Government never asked for any payment for services rendered, but, merchants to the core, they were happy to be owed favours.
They had to cash in on these favours a little earlier than expected. In mid-2271 the Vorlon Government, enraged by the Brakiri mobilisation, launched a devastating attack on their homeworld. The first attack was beaten off fairly easily. The second was a little harder, but Brakir was still unscathed. The Government were busy congratulating themselves on the strength of their new planetary defence systems when the third attack was launched.
And then the fourth.
And the fifth.
The Vorlons had far more resources than the Brakiri, and they were throwing everything they could at Brakir. The Brakiri fought well, and held them off for an extended period, but when the Aliens appeared in their terrifying midnight-black ships, Brakiri morale began to crack. No help could come from the forces at Zhabar, which were becoming increasingly bogged down.
Inevitably, the Aliens managed to get to the surface, and began their standard strategy of cleansing the world. At this point, every Brakiri became a warrior. They adopted the battle cry of 'Remember Kara', and fought with an insane lack of fear.
The Government was not idle either. They called in every favour they could. Marrago sent three battalions to the defence of Brakir, an act of generosity which almost cost him Frallus when Morden organised a surprise counterattack. Marrain came in person, leading an entire Tak'cha worldship. Unsurprisingly, there was no formal assistance from Satai Takier or the Minbari, but Tirivail and a group of Witch-Hunters came to teach the Brakiri how to hunt and destroy the Aliens. Tirivail formed a group of Witch-Hunters among the Brakiri, echoing the earlier formation of the Rangers. Even races which had striven to remain detached, such as the Abbai, the Vree and the Lumati, became involved.
By the end of the year, the battle was won. Every Alien on the surface had been either driven away or killed. The Alien ships had likewise been destroyed or forced to retreat, their mother ship blown up by Marrain in a ball of fire and fury. The Vorlons could spare no more resources on Brakir.
The cost was terrible. Every city on Brakir was devastated. Almost half the population had been killed. The earth had been torched, the air tainted. Only two of the twelve ruling Merchant-Lords were still alive. Their army was down to a tenth of its original strength.
But Brakir had survived. The Brakiri homeworld had not become another Kara.
And that was victory enough.
Williams, G. D. (2298) The Great War: A Study.
* * * * * * *
The pain had gone now. That was a good thing. It felt strange. His fingers still itched, for one thing. He had heard about it often, phantom feelings in severed limbs, but he had not realised what it would be like.
It felt.... wrong.
He had never imagined something like this would happen to him, that he would become a....
.... cripple.
Morden lifted his arm and looked at the stump. It was hard to believe this was really him. The medics of the Palace had managed to stop the bleeding and seal the wound, and he was not worried about gangrene or other infections. These were the Emperor's personal physicians. And the wounds to his face would heal.
No, the problem was deeper than that. He was no longer whole, no longer complete.
He was sure his Masters could do something about it. Even the Centauri had technology that could replace lost limbs, but they had no experience in working with human bodies, and in the current situation they didn't have the resources anyway.
The Vorlons could do it, if they wanted to, if they saw it as worthy of their attention. Morden did not have the status among them he had once had. Centauri Prime did not have the status it had once had. His injury did not impede his duties. They would not understand his feeling of loss and emptiness. They had outgrown such things when they left their own physical bodies behind.
Servant, boomed the voice of a Vorlon in his mind.
It took him completely by surprise, almost flooring him. It had been so long he had almost forgotten what it was like - the hammer-blows inside his skull with each syllable, the sense of being examined and studied and judged. He had done nothing of which he was ashamed, but there would be something, he knew that. Perfection was impossible in the eyes of the Vorlons.
Your world is in flames. The servants of the Enemy roam amongst you, killing our servants and destroying our holy places.
"Their leader is dead, Lord," he whispered. He did not have to speak the words out loud, but he preferred to. It was more natural that way, and it was not as if anyone was listening in. "I have the soldiers out hunting them."
And the traitor G'Kar is on your world.
"I have given orders for his arrest, Lord."
Our eyes have seen the massing of the fleets of the traitor Marrago.
"We will be ready for them, Lord."
His hand is behind all this. He seeks to take Centauri Prime from us. He has taken Kazomi Seven, and even now he is within our trap, but still he seeks to thwart us. He will not have Centauri Prime. He will not take another grain of sand that is ours.
"I shall defend this world, Lord. Pri...." Morden stopped himself just in time. "He will not take it."
The Vorlon continued as if he had not spoken. We will burn the planet to ashes before we let him claim it. You have the gateway of our allies. You will open it. Bring fire and death to this world of traitors.
Morden's heart grew cold. "But, Lord...."
Fear not, servant. You have done nothing to deserve death. You have been given a charm. Wear it and our allies shall know you as one of our true servants. You shall feel no madness and they shall not take you.
"Thank you, Lord," he whispered, his voice hollow.
Supervise the task. Watch as the mission is performed. When it is done, and not a single living being remains on Centauri Prime apart from yourself, contact us. We shall guide you to your next place of service.
"Yes, Lord," he said.
The weight in his mind lifted and he fell forward, reeling and shaking. Instinctively he reached out his hand to steady himself, but of course the hand was not there.
He fell to the floor, and lay there for a very long time.
* * * * * * *
The chamber was vast, measureless, stretching out as far as any of them could see. It was studded with little pinpricks of light, each one a soul, claimed at the moment of death. Countless different races, so many of them now dead and gone, remembered only here.
In the Well of Souls.
Ritual was a necessary thing sometimes, and Sinoval knew when to use pomp and ceremony for his own purposes. The first time he had done this, with Marrain, it had been much more secret, and much more private.
But this was different. Marrain's soul had been here, already within the Well. His body had been long gone, and so a new one had been found.
That could not be done now. Sheridan's soul had not been here, and Sheridan's own body was needed. No one would believe it was the same man if he looked and walked and spoke completely differently.
And he needed something to return for. He would not return for Sinoval himself. Marrain he could bargain with, and had done. Sheridan needed something else.
His agents had been sent throughout the galaxy to collect what was needed. He had entrusted no one with the whole plan. Talia had known some of it, and Susan a little more, but no one had known it all.
Except him.
We still counsel you against this, Primarch, the Well said to him. This broke ancient rules, laws as old as the Well itself. The first time he had done this he had sworn it would be the only time.
I do this because I must.
This is not necessary. This will not help the war to be won. You know this. You act out of honour, not necessity, and unlike necessity, honour can be put aside.
No, it cannot.
Honour is just a word. It is interpreted in countless different ways. There are over a thousand races within us who held some concept of honour, and all were different. But you know this.
My eyes are on the future. Who will lead the galaxy when this is done? I cannot. You know that.
That is not our concern.
But it is mine.
You cannot lie to us, Primarch. To all others, yes, even to the Emissary, but not to us. You speak of honour, and that is a part. You speak of the future, and that is a part. But the truth behind it all is neither of those things.
You want to ensure Sheridan sees that you were right, and he was wrong. All you want is for him to know that you have defeated him.
I was right. Delenn has seen that.
We have had nothing to do with Delenn. We tell you this, Primarch: this is dangerous, and this is wrong. It is not too late to choose another path.
A prophecy?
Death will come if you pursue this. No prophecy, simply what is true.
Death always comes to me. You know this.
You have been warned.
And where will this death come from?
We cannot tell you.
A question you cannot answer? Another one?
We know the events, but not the nature. Our prescience has never extended to ourselves or this chamber.
And if I continue anyway? Will you abandon me? Choose another?
We cannot. For better or worse, we are together until the end.
Precisely. So trust in me.
We do, Primarch. We always have.
Sinoval looked around at those gathered here. Sheridan's body was laid out on the altar at the very centre of the room, the place where Valen had come to seal the Enaid Accord. Susan and Lyta and the Praetors Tutelary and Cathedrellus were around him. The globe holding Sheridan's soul was floating above the body.
"Are you ready?" he asked Lyta.
"I think so," she replied. She was not looking at Susan.
"Then take your time. Reach out.... slowly."
Lyta exhaled and inhaled, blinking in perfect rhythm with her body.
"Are you there?" she whispered.
"Are you there, Delenn?"
* * * * * * *
The Well of Souls was right, as it always was.
The defences of Cathedral were inviolate. They always had been, down through all the millennia since its creation.
The Well of Souls could detect intruders. No technology, Vorlon or Shadow or First One, could penetrate Cathedral without their awareness.
No technology....
But magic.... that was another matter.
Sebastian had claimed the lives and memories of five Soul Hunters during the long years of the war. He had been charged with the apprehension and death of Sinoval, Primarch Majestus et Conclavus, and he was resolute in his purpose.
He knew the secrets of Cathedral as well as Sinoval did. He had been storing the information, waiting for the right opportunity. Since they had fought at Babylon 5, and he had triumphed, he had been waiting for another opportunity to claim Sinoval for his Masters.
And now, when the Primarch would be occupied, drained, tired....
Galen's magic had blinded the Well to their identity, attracting its attention to the soulstones they bore, masking their appearance....
Making them seem to be the Shagh Toth they hunted.
They moved slowly through the darkened corridors of Cathedral, making their way to the Well itself, ready for their chance.
* * * * * * *
Delenn?
Are you there, Delenn?
Why can't I hear you?