The ancient evil the Well of Souls was charged with defeating.
"You have done this," he said.
Beside him there came the soft, gentle tapping of metal hitting stone. "We had to match the power of the Well of Souls one way or another," said a clipped, precise, meticulously pronounced voice. "The collective consciousness of a million dead races would take more to defeat than we can spare at present."
Sinoval looked at him. The human, dressed in an ancient style, dead in his eyes, dead in his soul. A cold, harsh, calculating man, renowned for murder. Not the murder of millions or thousands or even hundreds. Before he had been made an Inquisitor he had killed five people, and only five. A small number even by the standards of human murderers — but he was special.
He had stared into infinity, into the centre of the universe. Somehow, during that last taking of life, he had seen something that had changed him forever.
He had seen into a new universe.
"Sebastian," he said. "Your name is Sebastian."
The human nodded, touching the brim of his hat. "We have not yet met in the flesh, and we are not doing so now, so you will have to forgo the formality of an introduction. When you are brought to our worlds to face judgment, then there will be time for politeness."
"You have a bizarre understanding of etiquette."
The man nodded. "I do what is required of me. Look upon this place, Sinoval. Look, and wonder how it is you will escape, for that will never happen. This is what awaits you."
Sinoval looked at him. "You are playing a game you do not understand."
"On the contrary, sir, we understand it very well. Good day, Primarch."
With that, the Inquisitor was gone.
Leaving Sinoval alone.
Susan stood before the massive doors, the single jewel shining down upon her. Its light was dull and faint. She had explored large areas of Cathedral during her time with Sinoval and she had found a great deal to surprise her, but she had not returned here since her arrival.
That did not mean she had been scared to.
The door was clearly meant to inspire awe and terror. Susan was neither awed nor terrified. She was mildly impressed, and in a very bad mood.
"We haven't got time for ritual," she snapped. "Open up now or I'll kick the door in."
The door opened, and she stepped inside.
In another situation she would have been astounded by the size and majesty of the room that greeted her. She might have asked how such a room, whose borders seemed to stretch into infinity, could fit inside a place even as massive as Cathedral. She might have wondered at the millions of twinkling stars that lined the walls.
She did not.
She stormed up to the altar, sparing only a passing glance for the flower that still rested there, looking as perfect and alive as the day it had been plucked.
"You know who I am," she snapped. "Talk to me, dammit!"
We know you, Emissary, came the voice. It was strange. She had expected something.... bigger. The voice sounded almost ill. But the Well could not be ill, surely. This was the Well of Souls. This was where Lorien had sent her. Lorien had told her all about the Well, all about Sinoval and his mission and what she had to do to help him.
"What the hell is going on? And answers today, please!"
Weak.... Our voice is.... trapped.... Imprisoned in a place we dare not.... go.
"Sinoval? Where is he?"
His.... soul.... taken elsewhere. The Vorlons have.... linked with him.... weakening us.... weakening him. Allied with.... others.
"Who? What others?"
Evil.
"The Vorlons are evil."
The Vorlons are.... ambition.... pride.... arrogance. They are wrong, but they are not evil. This evil.... has consumed stars.... fed upon the life.... the souls.... of a universe.... Everywhere they walked.... begat a charnel house.... They worshipped death.... they fed off death.... they became death. The soul.... the cycle.... rebirth.... nothing to them.... Evil.
Susan shivered. "Boy, you guys don't go in for small enemies. How do we get Sinoval back?"
He must.... return.... himself.... We cannot go there.... Enaid.... Golgotha.... old wounds.... old memories.... Our voice must.... speak once more.... be free.... himself.
"Your timing sucks. We've got a full scale war going on outside and Sinoval's grand plan is falling down around our ears, or whatever you have instead of ears. We need to get Cathedral out there and doing something."
Our voice.... trapped.... weak.
"Fine, if you need a job doing, do it yourself. Have we got any power here?"
A little.... Go to.... the pinnacle.... We will give what we have.... Emissary.
"Yeah, whatever." Susan left, running. She had a feeling even flying might not be fast enough.
There were no words, no whispers, no sound. There was the still, hollow silence of regret and sorrow and terror.
Marrago was motionless, paralysed, a sick feeling at the base of his stomach. He had not felt this since his banishment from the only home he had ever known, since he had learned his daughter was dead.
He looked at Senna's prone body, and he could not move.
"Captain," came Dasouri's voice across the comm channel. "Captain, we are ready to go." He ignored it.
"Captain." The voice came again, with greater urgency than before.
Marrago finally found the energy to move. He took a slow step forward and bent down over Senna's body. His throat dry, his hearts pounding, he reached out to touch her, remembering all the while the impact of his fist on her jaw.
He touched her arm, where blood pooled, sticky and warm.
Warm.
He touched her mouth and felt the slow, faltering gasp of breath.
Still alive.
Still alive.
"You're not dead," he whispered. "Lyndisty, you're not dead."
His thoughts began to race. He was a soldier. He knew all about injuries sustained on the battlefield. He had been trained in bandaging wounds, preventing blood loss. It was not too late. He had been too late before. She had been dead then, but she was alive now. There was a chance to save her.
He began ripping away the edges of her dress. The cloth would be capable of staunching the blood loss. She would need air blown into her lungs, and her hearts would need to be massaged. Old lessons more than four decades gone returned to him and his body began to move with the smooth motions of an automaton. He had been too late before, too slow and too old and too weak, but now he would be in time.
Old soldier's instincts kicked in. He heard the noise of the creature behind him swinging into the attack. He smelled its odour of death and hatred. His legs threw him out of the way. His arms reached for his kutari and his hands held the hilt tightly.
The Wykhheran appeared before him.
Lyndisty's blood continued to pool on to the floor.
Dasouri's voice continued to call for him over the comm channel.
Marrago felt twenty years younger. Thirty even.
"She will not die," he told the creature. "I will not let her die. Not again!"
The creature moved to attack.
"I have been thinking," he said softly, hoarsely, the remembered dust and smoke of twenty years ago clogging his lungs. "Thinking of the past."
"Really?" Da'Kal remarked, as she stepped inside and closed the door of the cell behind her. For a moment there was darkness, and then the light globe in her hand burst into life and the shadows flickered on the wall. In the half-light she looked ghostly, almost spiritual. He was not entirely sure she was even real. She had lived in his memories and dreams for so long, and yet he had never dared talk of her, talk to her, acknowledge her reality. She belonged to the old days.