“Miss Alexander, my name is Ta’Lon,” the Narn said. “I have been sent here to help you and Marcus Cole…”
“He’s dead,” she whispered. “He’s… dead.”
“I know. I am sorry I arrived too late. We… we have to go. I have a shuttle that can take us away from here. Sooner or later people will discover what you have done here, and then you will be in trouble.”
“Why… why come and help me?”
“The one I work for believes you may be a great assistance to him. He has been told about your… silent companion.”
He meant the Vorlon. She knew he meant the Vorlon. “I don’t care,” she whispered. “He couldn’t…” Kosh couldn’t save Marcus and he wouldn’t help her. She hoped to never hear his voice again. “I…”
“Can you walk? I can carry you, but…”
“No. I can walk. I just want to…”
Lyta staggered to her feet and moved forward, haltingly and unsteadily, towards Marcus. She knelt down beside him. He was dead and his face was marked by the same grief and anger and confusion that had marked his whole life. Not even in death had he found peace.
“You left me alone,” she said, almost accusingly. “You… left… me… alone… Oh, Marcus!” She began to cry, slow, halting tears. She simply leaned over his body, crying. She couldn’t think of anything else to say, she couldn’t think of all the things she should have told him, all the things they should have done…
It didn’t make sense, but then life didn’t. All she knew was that she was alone again.
“I’m ready,” she said, as she hobbled away from Marcus, throwing the bloodied pike aside. She never wanted to look at it again. She shot at glance at Ivanova. Impossibly, the Shadow agent was still alive, but much of her face was caved in, covered with blood. Her eyes were rolled up into her skull and she was whimpering softly, trembling and shaking. Lyta walked away. She didn’t… she couldn’t… she just wanted to be away from here.
Ta’Lon did not need to carry her. She could carry herself. She always had before and she would have to again.
Outside the door they both ran into General Hague.
For a thousand years the Grey Council had been the leaders of Minbar, the nine greatest of the Minbari, who led with wisdom and courage and grace. Formed by Valen at the end of the last Great War, the gathering of nine had ended centuries of bloody civil warring on Minbar. From then on, no Minbari would ever kill another. All of Minbar trusted and followed their nine leaders who inherited the legacy of Valen.
So when did the Nine fall? The death of Dukhat? The bloody, genocidal war against the humans? The ascension of one as proud and as arrogant as Sinoval to Holy One? The moment when Delenn – perhaps their last hope – was declared Zha’valen? Or had the Council always been corrupted by darkness and that darkness had simply never been evident before?
Regardless of where it began, it ended at the Battle of the Second Line.
It is easy to speak of if only… If only Delenn had gone straight to the Hall of the Council and not wasted time talking with her clan… if only Sinoval had killed Deathwalker instead of exiling her… if only Sheridan had escaped the trap on Vega 7… if only wise Hedronn had spoken up against Sinoval’s ambition… if only Sinoval had had Sheridan freed a few moments earlier… if only Dukhat had reacted quicker… if only Delenn’s casting vote had been different…
Dwelling on the past is largely futile, for it cannot be changed, but still, that does not stop anyone trying…
When Delenn and Lennann arrived at the Hall of the Council it was to find the columns of light dead. They slowed and hesitated. There had been no acolytes on duty outside the Hall – an unprecedented event. Even when the Council was absent, the acolytes were always there. And the Council should not be absent. Yes, Sinoval had sent them away to meditate, but they had been recalled. This was wrong. This was very, very…
Delenn stumbled in the darkness and had to sway to regain her balance. Her equilibrium was not ideal at the best of times since her change, but this was no accident. She had tripped over something.
“Lights,” she called out. The nine columns of light appeared and Delenn saw what she had tripped over.
“In Valen’s Name,” Lennann rasped. Delenn was silent. She could not think of any words to say to greet the sight of Satai Dulann’s body. Her throat had been crushed. Not far from Satai Dulann was Satai Matokh, a warrior… and another behind him, and another…
Four of the Nine lay in the circle, their bodies twisted and broken. Almost half of the Grey Council killed. In the centre of the circle was another, but he was not dead…
Hedronn was kneeling, rasping angry prayers to Valen, prayers that went unheeded. Beside him was the staff of the Grey Council, the one Sinoval carried in his position as Holy One, the one he allowed Hedronn to carry in his absence. The staff was covered in blood.
“Hedronn,” Delenn whispered, horrified. She had know him for many cycles. She had trusted in his wisdom and his clarity of thought. He had been stubborn, yes, but always wise. To see… this…
“Hedronn.” He heard her and turned, and Delenn started. In his eyes… madness… a pure, intense, psychopathic madness. He scooped up the staff and charged forward, holding it over his head, issuing a roar of anger and hatred that Delenn would not have thought possible.
Delenn remained transfixed and would doubtless have been killed had not Lennann acted, pulling her out of the way. Hedronn’s charge continued and he stumbled over Dulann’s body, crashing to the floor. He was weeping, harsh, angry, tragic tears.
“Valen… forgive me… Valen… forgive…”
“Alcohol,” said a quietly observant, half mocking voice. “Alcohol. Such a wonderful substance. Humans turn to it for comfort and as a rite of passage. Narns pride themselves on their alcoholic drinks, making them with a precision and love that not even decades of occupation could erase. The Centauri drink it almost as much as they breathe their air. The Minbari alone in the entire galaxy react to alcohol in this way. Homicidal paranoia. Murderous anger. It is refreshing to know that deep down, you are no better than the humans. Worse even.”
“Who?” Lennann asked. “You… you did this. You…”
The figure stepped forward and bowed deeply. “Warmaster Jha’dur of the Dilgar. Some call me Deathwalker.”
“Why?” Lennann asked. “Why have you…?”
“The name. They call me Deathwalker. Besides, I am merely fulfilling the prophecies. Valen said that the Council would be broken, did he not? And lo, it is broken. Four dead… sorry, five, if you include poor, dear Rathenn. Hedronn will doubtless kill himself when the alcohol I gave him wears off and he realises just what he has done. Sinoval… can wait, and Kalain will probably be more useful to me alive. Especially when word reaches him that the Grey Council was killed by a worker.”
“Minbari do not kill Minbari,” Lennann whispered, horrified.
“That is the saying, is it not? Unfortunately it appears that someone let a certain Centauri Ambassador know of events here, and word of this will reach Minbar soon. There is no Valen to help save you this time.”
Lennann let out a long, wordless scream and charged forward. Deathwalker smiled, and drew her fighting pike. Sinoval was better at the pike than Deathwalker was, but Sinoval was better than everyone. Lennann had no weapon. He did not stand a chance.
His body slumped to the floor, sightless eyes staring up into the light.
Delenn backed away slowly and paused beside Matokh’s body. He would have a pike. He always carried his weapon, despite rulings to the contrary. Sure enough, it was hidden under his robes.
Delenn had been trained well with the pike. Draal had been known to wield it from time to time, but it was Neroon, the only Minbari alive who could pose a match to Sinoval, who had taught her the art of wielding such a weapon. He had even given her his weapon, which had been given to him by Durhan – one of the fabled nine blades. That weapon was lost now. Sinoval probably had it. It was tainted anyway, having been wielded in murder by Susan Ivanova. Matokh’s might serve to avenge him.