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A nightmare thing of rakish spines and multiple glowing eyes descended upon the citadel of Daikovan, bringing the storm in its wake. 

Icy winds howled and clawed at the banners of the massed soldiery outside the walls, the knifelike cold bringing tears to the eyes.    Beneath the thing’s shadow, the cavalry’s steeds trumpeted and began to shy away.   Lord Issander reined in his mount with a practiced touch, quickly calming it with a murmured reassurance and a pat to its strong neck.   He eyed the cruiser with slitted gaze; no good tidings ever came with an Inquisitor Command cruiser, and he had been dreading this visit for the past several years.   Nevertheless, he was determined to meet whatever came with shoulders squared. 

Tall even for a man of the Rhiyanna, the Lordly Ones, Issander displayed a hardness rarely seen anymore in that race; his visage was sculpted in harsh weathered lines, his eyes limned at the corners with fine lines hinting at an age-old sorrow and despair.   For a brief moment, he allowed himself to speculate on the possible results of attack; he had behind him six full legions of his fanatically loyal battle slaves, his house cavalry, and twelve assorted batteries of photon cannon and induction catapults, certainly more firepower than the light cruiser and its escorts could muster.  

One wave of his hand, and it would be like trapping a fly …  but no.   There could be only one path for him once he defied the Emperor’s favorites; to carve his way to the Phoenix Throne himself or die trying.   He let the moment pass. 

The cruiser – a living thing whose body had been shaped and mind totally enslaved to the will and whims of its masters – settled on a snowfield as close to the gates of Daikovan as it could, followed shortly by its attendant swarm of escort vessels like the unquestioned queen of some great dark hive.   Without signal Issander’s musicians struck up a martial theme, and filled the air with its stirring, strident strains. 

To the booming of kettledrums the cruiser’s assault bays opened, disgorging a full battalion of the feared red-and-gold armored Sun Templars, leonine arrogance measured in every step, followed by a bevy of priests also in white and gold, and finally the Inquisitor himself, seated in a carved onyx throne borne on the shoulders of eight brawny slaves.  The pounding drums reached a crescendo then stopped.  To the plaintive wail of a single horn, the Templar ranks split and the Inquisitor, still surrounded by his attendant clerics, was borne forward.    Issander’s lips quirked in a wry, totally mirthless smile; he knew this Inquisitor, knew him quite well indeed, though he came with another’s face. 

At the exact required distance, Issander dismounted, dropped to one knee and lowered his forehead almost to the ground.   "In the name of Azren, the Unconquered, the Ever-reborn Phoenix, I welcome thee to Daikovan, Lord Inquisitor Dyronn.   I trust the Emperor is well?" 

"May the Unconquered Sun’s light shine ever upon thee and thy works, Lord Issander.  Yes, the Emperor is well, and you are in his mind,"  Dyron returned with a hint of ironic humor in his voice. "It is good to see thy armies stand ready as ever," he noted, waving a languid hand at the massed ranks of Issander’s soldiery arrayed upon the field. 

"I stand ever ready to serve," Issander murmured. 

"That is well, my lord.  Shall we review the troops together?   The Emperor wishes you to lead a new campaign and has entrusted me with the task of seeing that you are ready." 

"As you will, my Lord Inquisitor." 

"Walk with me, Issander.   It is quite appropriate for us to hold converse on our way, and speak as old friends, is it not?" 

"As you will, my Lord Inquisitor."   He waved his attendants away, signing for them to take his mount, then fell in beside the magnificent palanquin. 

The youthful face of the Inquisitor cracked into laughter unmirrored in his ancient eyes.  "What’s this?" he mocked, switching from the formal Court tongue to the colloquial.  "My old friend, my sparring mate in the House of War, my battle-companion, refuses to recognize an old friend in a younger body!  Now how could this be?  Surely, an intelligent man such as yourself could not be subscribing to that Revivalist heresy?" 

"No heresy, my – old friend," Issander replied heavily.  "But still – I think of what that young man whose shell you now wear might have been, had you let him live his own life.   Did he not have dreams, too?" 

"He served the Phoenix Throne, the race, and the god best by his sacrifice," the Inquisitor declared, his face impassive.  "It was  his destiny, written at birth -- just as your daughter’s was written at hers.   It is a great honor, you know.  To be of the Emperor’s Chosen!   Imagine it – of all the Rhiyanna, scattered across the face of the universe, only a thousand will be chosen every ten years.   Only a thousand.  A thousand of the most beautiful, the most talented, the most physically, mentally and spiritually perfect – and your daughter is one of them! 

"There can be no higher honor within the Empire, Issander - save one; joining us.    If young Jehanna pleases His Eternal Majesty, he might raise her to the ranks of the Ever-living, and make her immortal." 

Issander halted in mid-stride.  "She would throw herself into Azren’s cleansing fire first, or she’s no daughter of mine," he hissed through gritted teeth.    "My House is as old as yours, Dyronn, but never in our history has any of our lineage fallen to your sect’s corruption, and there never will!"   Without thinking, his hand fell upon his sword’s hilt and began to draw. 

The priests surged forward, ready to throw themselves under Issander’s blade to shield their master.   At the same time a low, ominous rumble of anger rose from the massed battle slaves.    For long heartbeats, Issander was alone in the universe, time stopped, every sight and sound frozen in clear glass.   Once again, he let the moment pass; the price of following his burning heart  was still far too high to contemplate.    He reluctantly shoved the sword back in sheath. 

When the numbness of his mind cleared, the first thing he heard was Dyronn’s low laugh. 

"Excellent, Issander, excellent!"  the Inquisitor chuckled.   "You will be glad to know that your remarkable sense of restraint has saved your planet from the Burning.   Yes," he said to Issander’s shocked stare, serious again, "I brought an entire battle fleet.    His Eternal Majesty wanted to be sure you would do your duty - your loyalty has been rather suspect since first your refusal to extirpate the Qualorion to the last man after their rebellion, and then your refusal to send your daughter when she was Chosen.    

"Besides, you will need the transport to get yourself and your troops to the Mejjaur front; the Emperor wants you there without delay.   Knowing you likely to destroy any other messenger with such tidings, I volunteered in the hope you would remember our friendship." 

Issander’s shoulders slumped.   Jehanna would understand.    A man might bear the guilt for the obliteration of one world; but not two.  "Let me have a few days with my daughter, then, to say farewell.   She is my only family," he sighed. 

"A day is all I can give you, my Lord Issander," Dyronn said.   Was that a trace of regret?   "The Emperor wants you to be at the front as soon as possible.   The war against the Swarm is not going well.    I tell you this only because I know you have not enough time to reveal it to many."   Suddenly he leaned forward and stripped the glove from his right hand, then extended it.   "If the Emperor had his way, this will be the last time we see each other.   But if I know you - we’ll meet again.   To our old friendship?" 

Issander stared at the hand without taking it.   "We will meet again," his words dripped icily one by one.    "By the Unconquered Sun and all the lesser gods, I swear it." 
 

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