Thus it was that at last Gallen looked up to see Veriasse standing in the shadows at the head of the trail. Gallen startled, tried to sit up and throw his clothes on in one move, but Veriasse raised a finger to his lips.
“Careful, don’t wake her,” he said, his voice ragged. “Throw her robe over her, keep her warm.”
Gallen did so, slid into his undergarments, then his own robes. He watched Veriasse from the corner of his eye, half afraid that the older man would attack him, but Veriasse seemed more hurt than angry. He kept his arms protectively folded over his stomach and turned away, began walking slowly up the path.
Gallen finished dressing and followed Veriasse. The old man walked with his back straight, tense. Gallen needed to break the silence, so he said softly, “I’m sorry, I-”
Veriasse whirled, stared hard at Gallen. “No apologies are necessary,” he said at last, with hurt in his voice. “Everynne obviously has chosen you over me. I suppose it is only natural. She is a young woman, and you’re an attractive man. I, ah, ah …” He raised his hands, let them drop in consternation.
“I’m sorry,” Gallen said, unable to think of anything more.
Veriasse advanced on him, pointed his finger. “You shut your mouth! You know nothing of sorrow! I’ve loved her for six thousand years. I love her as you could only hope to love her!”
“No!” Gallen shouted, and suddenly a rage burned in him. “You loved her mother, you miserable bastard! Everynne is not Semarritte! Everynne may be willing to do your will, she may be willing to wear the omni-mind for the good of her people, but if she puts it on, you will have destroyed her. You will have murdered your own daughter in order to regain the woman you love!”
Veriasse’s eyes blazed and his nostrils flared. Gallen realized that his mantle was heightening his vision. Gallen’s own muscles tightened and when Veriasse swung, Gallen ducked under the attack, sought to remain calm, emotionally detached. He punched at Veriasse’s belly, but the old man dodged, kicked at Gallen’s chest.
Suddenly they were both moving, spinning in a blur of fists and feet in the darkness. Veriasse was like a ghost, impossible to touch. Guided by his mantle, Gallen swung and kicked in a steady barrage of attacks that would have overwhelmed any dozen ruffians back on Tihrglas, yet never did a blow land with any force. Sometimes Veriasse would turn a blow, and in one brief portion of a second, Gallen’s hopes soared. But after three minutes, he had not landed a blow, and he was beginning to tire. He knew that Veriasse would soon attack.
Gallen stepped back from the fight, took a defensive stance. Veriasse was not winded. “I wore that mantle for six thousand years, and would be wearing it now if I didn’t fear that it would jeopardize my right to fight in ritual combat,” he said. “I taught it most of what it knows.”
Then he leapt for the attack. Gallen dodged the first few swings and kicks, but Veriasse threw a head punch that Gallen tried to deflect with his wrist. The old man was far stronger than Gallen had ever imagined, and the blow felt as if it would snap Gallen’s arm. The punch grazed his chin, sent him sprawling.
Gallen leapt back to his feet, let the mantle guide his actions. Veriasse began a deadly dance, throwing kicks and punches in combinations that were designed to leave a victim defenseless. Gallen’s mantle began whispering to him-this is a fourteen-kick combination-flashing images of what would happen in his mind quickly so that Gallen could escape the final consequences.
After forty seconds, Veriasse leapt back, apparently winded, studied Gallen appreciatively for a second, then leapt into combat once more. He swung and kicked in varying combinations so fast that Gallen’s mantle was overwhelmed; Gallen had to fend blindly, retreating through the woods. Veriasse was swinging and leaping, his fists and hands in Gallen’s face so much that Gallen was sure he would go for a low kick. But suddenly Veriasse vaulted into the air and kicked for his chest. Gallen reached up to turn the kick with his arm, but the old man shifted in midair, aiming the kick at the blocking arm.
The blow landed with a snapping sound on the ganglia in Gallen’s elbow, numbing the entire arm. A second kick landed as Veriasse dropped, hitting Gallen’s ribs hard enough to knock the wind from him. Veriasse twisted as he fell through the air, and a third kick grazed Gallen’s head, knocking off his mantle.
Gallen hit the ground, gasping for breath, and glared up at Veriasse. He would be no match for the old man without a mantle. Even with a mantle, he’d been no match for the old man.
Veriasse stood over him, gasping. Sweat poured down Gallen’s face; without the mantle, he could see little in the darkness, but he could make out Veriasse’s blazing eyes. Gallen held his aching arm, found that he could only move his numb fingers with difficulty.
“I don’t need you,” Veriasse said. “You are not coming with us.”
“I’m sure Everynne will have something to say about that,” Gallen said.
“And I’m equally sure that I will not listen to her.”
“Just as you’ve never listened to her?” Gallen asked. “You send her to her death and think you can ignore her cries?”
“You find that appalling?” Veriasse said roughly, his voice suddenly choked.
“Yes,” Gallen said. “I find you appalling.”
The old man nodded his head weakly, stood by a tree and suddenly grabbed it for support, looking about absently as if he had lost something. “Well, well, so be it. I find myself appalling. There is an apt saying among my people, ‘Of all men, old politicians are the most damned, for they must live out their days in a world of their own creation.’ “
Gallen was surprised that Veriasse did not argue, did not defend his actions. “Is it so easy for you to be appalling?”
“What I’m doing,” Veriasse said, straightening his shoulder, “appalls even me … But, I can think of nothing else to do. Gallen, an omni-mind takes thousands of years to construct. Once it is built, it is meant to be used by only one person throughout the ages. If another person tries to wield it, the intelligence cannot function to full capacity. We must win back that omni-mind! And though I wish it were not so, whoever deigns to use it will be consumed in the process. I knew this when I first cloned Everynne. I knew she would be destroyed. Somehow, the sacrifice seemed more … bearable at the time.” Veriasse turned away, his breath coming deep and ragged. “Gallen, Gallen-how did I get into this mess?”
Veriasse needed a way out of his predicament. He stood for a moment, his back turned to Gallen. “What if you get killed in your match with the dronon?” Gallen asked. “What will happen to Everynne?”
“She may be killed also.”
“But, if I remember your words correctly, that is not what the dronon do to their own Golden Queens who lose the combat. Instead, the losing queen is only marred and may never compete in the contest again.”
“True,” Veriasse agreed, “sometimes. But the decision whether to mar or destroy the queen comes at the whim of the victor. I fear that the dronon would not spare Everynne. They murdered all of the Tharrin they could catch in this sector after the invasion, then obliterated their genetic matter.”
“I am coming with you to Dronon,” Gallen said. “If you lose, perhaps I can convince the dronon to only mar Everynne. Of all possible outcomes, this one alone gives her some hope. She would be free to live her own life.”
Veriasse looked down at Gallen, raised an eyebrow. “You would risk everything on this one chance to save her? It sounds like a noble gamble,” he admitted. Veriasse paused, drew a breath, and he suddenly straightened, as if a load had been lifted from his shoulders. “I will welcome your company, then. And if I die in the contest, I can only hope that you will succeed in bringing Everynne away safely. She is a great treasure, the last of her kind in this part of the galaxy.”