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not really.
Short strides, quick strides, untiring strides bear him toward Sybernal,
toward the CastCenter. She called you a god, and you let her go. A quick
glance toward the flat surface of the ocean tells him that the waves, long and
sleek in their golden greenness, are flatter than usual.
Why are you so hung up on this esper crew that calls themselves gods?
Talented, yes. Gods, no. Right? The air seems a shade more golden, along with
the calm, and the highway is deserted. Like when Rathe found you the cottage?
Stop it!
Do you love her? Honestly? ' No.
Like her? Respect her? Yes.
His dialogue with his unseen devil or conscience is brought to a halt with his
perception of the sheer raw energy ahead.
His legs keep pumping as he quick-steps up the paved highway and over the
gentle hilltop.
Just over the crest sits the doctor/god Apollo in an insubstantial chair. The
four legs of the chair are yellow snakes. The back is composed of two fanned
dragon wings. Beneath his golden ringlets Apollo's face is expressionless. At
his right foot lies the body of a man. . . young, dark-haired, facedown. Dead.
By his left quivers a redheaded woman, sobbing silently, dryly. Rathe. Rathe.
Balance, Martel. You do not understand the need for balance. Power must be
balanced with the understanding of its impact on mere mortals. Belief is more
powerful than power.
Apollo tells the truth as he sees it, Martel knows; his words ring like a flat
carillon.
Martel gathers his darkness around him, bemused as the clouds of black
glittermotes appear from nowhere.
Before you try to employ that energy, Martel, be so kind as to observe.
Martel nods, reaching out a thin thread of thought to reassure Rathe.
Apollo outlines a golden square in the air. Colors swirl and resolve into a
picture.
Martel watches, a comer of his mind still occupied with the huddled figure
that is Rathe Firien, as the small drama comes to an end.
Rathe is helping another of Apollo's would-be demigods become accustomed to
Aurore. Except ... except this time she does not offer her body and soul. Does
not. Does not humble herself. The man, pursuing, strikes out with all his
mental force. . . and the force misses Rathe and rebounds upon him. Partly,
Martel surmises, because Rathe is wearing the same shielding as when she first
met him, partly because the man is a lower-level esper, and partly because. .
.
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Martel wonders if along with his physical gifts he had given her some shields
of her own.
In the picture conjured by Apollo, the last scene shows Rathe looking down at
a body, the same body that lies at Apollo's feet.
You see, Martel, what you have done. I? Come off it, you pious fraud! Martel
twists raw hunks of power, not from the energy field of Aurore, from his own
depths, and marshals it within. You cannot harm me, Martel. No! . . . No. -
. murmurs a small voice. Martel looks at his former lover and holds his
energies. Why not? he temporizes. Because
Her statement is never completed, for Apollo touches her, and she is gone. A
flash Of flame, and she is gone.
. . - you'll be like him. Those were her last thoughts, and they fade into the
golden haze.
Martel hesitates. Looks at Apollo, standing yellow-bright, smirking, daring
Martel to strike.
Martel gathers his darkness even tighter into himself. . . and walks around
the chair with the flickering legs, around the smirking god, and begins to
trot toward Sybernal.
Step, step, step, step. - . and wipe your cheek. Step, step, step. Wipe. Step,
step, step. . . She asked you not to. But Rathe is gone. For what?
Gone in flame because of a mad god. And he, Martel, had not seen it coming.
Had not seen the total disregard, the snuffing out of a vital woman, snap. Had
not believed power so cavalierly used. But she asked you not to.
Rathe had not asked for help, had not begged for anything . . . just for
Martel not to attack Apollo. And not because she feared Martel would be hurt.
Because you'll be like him. That was what she'd said. Martel shudders even
as he keeps trotting. Are all gods like that? Isn't everyone with power?
Kryn. Lovely Kryn, having her guards fire on a lonely Martin Martel just
because he'd been discovered to have esper potential.
The Grand Duke, who ruled high in Karnak, throwing the Imperial Marines after
a solitary student who had displeased his daughter.
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