A Call to Darkness - Michael Jan Friedman [30]
Appearance was everything. Every First Caster knew that. And if Dan’nor was not exactly pure First Caste, he had trained himself to act like one.
So he kept his composure. Even when one of the ceremonial guards-his peer by rank-gave him that pitying look. As if Dan’nor had damaged himself and his career worse than he’d originally imagined.
He stopped as the guards pulled the doors open, exposing the elaborately military design of the Council Chamber within. Monstrous, stylized birds of prey seemed to hover within the shadows of the high, vaulted ceiling. Earthbound hunting animals appeared to slink behind the Seven Thrones, their jeweled eyes glinting in the light of a hundred smoking torches.
Dan’nor had seen this place only once before-at a reception for the new Conflict Commander. But then, the thrones had been empty.
This time, the thrones were occupied; the Council awaited in their military finery, no less elaborate and awe-inspiring than the chamber itself. Dan’nor swallowed once and walked inside.
He stopped at an appropriate distance, dropped to one knee and averted his eyes. For a time, no one spoke. There were only small sounds-a clearing of someone’s throat, a scrape of boot on the polished floor-but in the vast, echoing space, even such small items sounded great and portentous.
“Rise, Dan’nor Tir’dainia.”
He got up, regarded the one who had finally spoken. It was Councillor Eliek’tos-a good sign. Of all of them, Eliek’tos was reputed to be the most lenient, and it was he who seemed to have taken the lead in this matter.
“Most honored Councillor,” responded Dan’nor. “I came as soon as you sent for me.”
“Of course,” said Eliek’tos. “But let us get to the point now. I have heard reports; I wish to hear yours.”
Eliek’tos was the epitome of First Caste dispassionas befit one who served on the Council. His golden eyes betrayed nothing; likewise, his voice. Dan’nor envied him his pale, perfect skin, his mane of red hair drawn back into a warrior’s knot.
If his nose had been as straight as Eliek’tos’s, if his lips had been as thin and his face as narrow-he would never have been given the lowly post of Fulfillment Facilitator. He would never have had the opportunity to make the mistake he had made.
If.
It was a bitter fruit of a word. If his father, a pureblood, had mated with one of his own kind instead of a mixed-blood woman, many things might have been different-for his father even more than for himself. After all, mating downcaste was an unofficial crime, punishable by ouster. His military career destroyed, Trien’nor Tir’dainia had had to accept menial labor in one of the factories.
All for love. To Dan’nor, it was inconceivable.
Considering his family history, he had done well to rise even as far as he had. To gain a place in the military. To have a function, no matter how simple, and a command, no matter how small.
Once, he had aspired to more. He had hoped to garner respect for the efficient performance of his duties-to earn himself a promotion to field service, where he would participate directly in the Conflicts.
Now, however, that dream was in jeopardy-and perhaps much more than the dream. Dan’nor recalled the guardsman’s look of pity, blinked it away.
“Did you hear me, Tir’dainia?”
Dan’nor inclined his head before speaking. “My apologies, revered Councillor. I was gathering my thoughts, so as to present them in the most concise way possible.”
One of the other councillors snorted in derision. Dan’nor didn’t look to see which one-it would have been an act of discourtesy to Eliek’tos, and he could ill afford that.
“Are your thoughts ordered now?” asked Eliek’tos.
“They are,” said Dan’nor.
“Then proceed,” said the councillor.
Dan’nor was tempted to blame it all on those who reported to him. Nor would it be far from the truth. It was they who had failed to maintain the computer; ultimately, the fault was theirs.
But he did not think the Council would take kindly