Prison of Night

It was hard now to be sure. At first the explanation had been so obvious; wild radiation from the twin suns, merging as they closed, blasting space with energies which distorted the microcurrents of the brain and giving rise to hallucinations. Figments of memory made apparently real, words spoken but heard only by the one concerned, figures seen, advice taken, counsel asked. And yet he was a stranger, born and reared outside this culture and how could he be certain that of them all he alone was right?

"Earl!" Another figure standing where the other had been but this time one with hair of a somber red. Kalin? Always she seemed to be close but, as he rose he recognized the woman. Not Kalin but Dephine. Another who had claimed to have loved him and had played him false. Helping him even while she worked to destroy him by unconsciously leading him to the world on which he had found the spectrum of a forgotten sun. His sun. The one which wanned Earth. His world which, at last, he was certain he could find given time and money. "Do you still hate me, Earl?"

"Should I?"

"I intended to sell you to the Cyclan. You know that my words, my acts, all were to hold you and waste time."

"Yes."

"And still you do not hate?"

She blurred as he made no answer, dissolving to change into another figure, thin, tall, haggard, the eyes accusing, the hands lifted as if to ward off a blow.

Chagney whom he had forced to breathe space.

"You killed me," he said. "You sent me into the void. I had done you no harm. Why did you kill me? Why didn't you listen?"

To the sound of crying, thin, remote-unforgettable!

Dumarest turned and looked over the inner wall of the parapet into the courtyard below. Retainers stood in the open space, some moving, talking as they walked, their faces animated as they watched and listen to people he could not see. Others, equally engrossed, spoke to relations long dead or to lovers and friends, companions and, even the children of their flesh who had succumbed.

Glancing at the sky he judged the position of the suns. This period of delusia had been strong but already the orbs were moving apart and soon it would be over.

"Earl!" Another woman but this time real. The Lady Lavinia Del Belamosk, tall, her hair a rippling waterfall of liquid midnight barred with silver, breasts prominent beneath the taut fabric of her blouse came toward him along the promenade. "Darling, I was worried. You have been sitting up here for so long."

"I was thinking."

"Of Earth?" Her smile was that of a mother to a child. "Your world. The planet of legend. Yes, I know," she said quickly as he frowned, "It is real. You are sure of that because you were born on it and all the rest of us have forgotten where it is to be found. As you have forgotten."

"No," he said. "I didn't forget. I never knew."

"Of course-what could a runaway boy know of spacial coordinates. And for years now you've been trying to find the way back. But, my darling, why should you bother now? You have me. You have what I own. And you have land of your own."

"No."

"Yes," she insisted. "The Council voted it. You can't refuse."

Land which was almost worthless in the sense that it couldn't be sold. And it took time to breed animals for fur and hides, to plant and harvest crops, to sift the upper layers for decorative stones and diluted minerals. The upper surface-below that the Sungari ruled. As they ruled at night. Sharing the world with men who owned the surface and the day.

Turning he again saw Dephine, tall, her eyes mocking, metallic glints reflected from the metal tipping her fingers. The attribute of a harlot and yet she had been a member of a family cursed with pride. Perhaps he had offered her an escape from the iron bonds of ancient tradition. Or it could have been simply that he had been prey for her predator-like instinct.

It didn't matter now. Dephine was dead. Only on Zakym did she return to haunt him with her enigmatic smile and memories of what might have been. But the threat of the Cyclan remained. The reason why he had run from Harald. The reason why he was here, in this castle, with this woman, on this peculiar world.

"Earl?" Lavinia was concerned. "Earl, are you well?"

He stared at her, wondering for a moment if she were real or merely another delusion. Wondering too why she appeared to be unaffected by the delusia and why he seemed to be more susceptible of late. Was instinct urging him to escape while he had the chance? Primitive caution overriding logical consideration and striving for attention by this peculiar distortion of his senses?

"Earl?"

"It's nothing."

Stepping forward she lifted her hand and gently ran her fingers through his hair. Beneath their tips she could feel the line of freshly healed tissue running over the scalp. Gydapen's last, wild shot had found a target, the beam of the laser searing almost to the bone. Could such a wound have unexpected aftereffects?

Guessing her thoughts he said, impatiently, "I'm all right, Lavinia. There's nothing wrong with me."