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The End of Honor

By L D. Alford

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One

My name is Lyral. I am no longer alive. My life has flown like
the cry of a tropical bird, a ragged call on the twilight of an
Empire. The sound, like my memory, is quickly forgotten in
the important matters of the times. Yet, in the important matter of my
death, no one gave me a choice, and I did not want to die.
While my body lies in a pool of its own blood, the Nobility of the
Empire confer around it as though the passionate stain of red never
touched their thoughts. Dear Lord, my body still twitches—in tiny
movements, my arms and legs send up a morbid benison to the Hall of
Accords.
How ugly is my bruised face, stuck on a pole for each man to
adulterate with his stare. But they don’t stare. They don’t even look.
My virgin body lies eternally silent. My once fine features are clasped
in an angry death spasm. And neither my House nor my love is here to
avenge me.
I beg to feel a single spark of emotion. My spirit, kneeling before
my headless corpse, cannot cry. My spirit is emotionless and nearly
without feelings, yet I find analysis easy. Death did not push away
knowledge; it only made all knowledge horrible because I can no
longer act on it!
Yet, analysis is not difficult. I am numb, a spirit without emotion.
The seeds of emotion exist. I know them, but I cannot feel them. They
are no longer sensations. They are only perceptions, conceived but now
foreign.
Although I sense the movement of human affairs around me, I am
no longer concerned with human life and all its trivialities. Yet life—if
I could, I would seize it again. But, like emotion, the physical has flown.
I cannot remember the love and desire I felt for my betrothed, though,
as I contemplate his end, I know a pang in my soul; let his death, dear
God, be less savage than my own.
Death was so easy. I remember a sharp swift pain, but the feeling
was diminished by anticipation. And I fought the loss of that treasure of
God. As the mortal wound poured my life’s blood on the stone floor of
the hall, I fought the loss of my life. For a moment, I felt lost and dizzy.
Then I saw myself. At first, with horror: I thought I saw through the
eyes of my sundered head. My body lay before me spattered with gore.
As I stared at it in awful contemplation, my executioner—assassin—
held aloft my head. I saw it clearly not less than a meter from where I
knelt. With deadly certainty, I knew I was indeed past the point of life.
My soul had escaped its mortal frame, yet I saw with undimmed eyes.
I viewed everything with crystal clarity—better than I could in
life. Shadows were no longer shadows to me; they opened as if filled
with light. The depths of souls seemed to open to me. The men who
watched my death became flames of spirit in my new eyes. Unknown
to them, they cast off their true selves like the spectrum of a burning
star: I could read them. I knew their petty fears and ways. I knew their
thoughts. Some watched with horror, others self-righteously, still
others fearfully. They were all open to me. I looked at myself and saw
no flame. The flame had gone out and not an ember was left.
I was free. I was unfettered from any bond of my physical body. I
rose to the heights of the Hall of Accords and moved down below the
floor. I slid forward and back through walls and windows. Yet life had
been so dear, and I gained little joy from my newfound freedom. No
joy, but no remorse either. My only thought was for the living.
I was sad my own life was forfeit—ended so early, my youthful
longings unfulfilled, my dreams sundered in a sword’s keen slash.
I had dreams. I would have been a Princess. My rank was high and
my father and mother had groomed me for that role. I was to become
the lady to a Prince of the Human Galactic Empire. I remember my
parents with regret, but I remember them no more than I do my love.
Life is too short that love should so early be cut off. At once I knew the
feeling that would be his despair, and for a moment, I felt the emotion
grip my being. He loved me; indeed, he loves me.
My father was Duke Paris Neuterra, the ruler of the Duchy of
Neuterra, the first of the Thirty Kingdoms of the Empire of Human
Space. Under the Emperor Maricus, my Father controlled the populated
systems of Neuterra, Acier, Terra, Flores, Paradisi, Mercine, St. Perth,
El Torino, Westerland, and Gach Saran. In addition, he held sway over
a host of unpopulated star systems whose planets couldn’t support
human life but were valuable for exploration and mining.
Neuterra was his personal holding and estate. It represented ten
large cities and five hundred million people, the largest population in
the Empire. Neuterra was the first planetary system successfully
colonized by Terra. The system specialized in bio-products with an
emphasis on genetic research and development. Neuterra also provided
perhaps 90 percent of the personnel and organic supplies in the work of
terraforming other planets in the Empire. Neuterra was a very rich and
powerful system.
I was the Duke of Neuterra’s eldest daughter, his only daughter, his
only child. He and his dame, my mother, could not bear another child.
Though they tried, their vitality was gone, and the Codes of the Noble
Accords forbade them from any artificial means of increasing their
fertility.
They were stuck with me, and the only hope for our House was an
alliance marriage. With this in mind, my father groomed me to attract
the attention of another great House, one that would willingly accept
the Duchy and the name. With the approval of the Landsritters, the
Emperor would be forced to accept the new House Neuterra descended
through me.
I was well prepared to fill this position. I was made to be a
Princess. I was educated to be a scientist of political solutions and
ventures—an advisor, steward, mother, ruler, lover, and I was all of
these and more. My heritage and intelligence allowed me to excel in
these studies as if I was truly born to them, which I was. But I was not
the Princess my Father hoped I would be.
Part of the problem was physical; I was never beautiful—just
pretty. My features were warm and sunny, youthful and impulsive. I
could never appear aristocratic and mature or refined and striking.
More often than I was recognized as a Princess, the daughter of Duke
Neuterra, I was mistaken for a lady-in-waiting.
A Princess should domineer and overwhelm; I was quiet and
petite. People were comfortable around me, and I had more friends
than servants. I was a scandal in the making, so said the Matron
Pembray. My problem wasn’t knowledge or understanding; I knew
exactly how to be a Princess. I thought I could perform the job of a
Princess better than any other woman born to the position, but
somehow, I was not fitted physically or emotionally to be a Princess.
My father, consequently, despaired of ever finding a suitable match
for me.
Fortunately, a match found me, and it happened this way:
Every morning, I walked the garden paths of my father’s estate.
That was one of my greatest pleasures. The early spring garden was
beautiful. It was filled with new growth and neatly trimmed with dew
that sparkled in the early morning light of Asa-Thor and our sun. The
garden was filled with life. My time spent among the gardens of the
estate, I counted among my most enjoyable moments.
My Father’s gardens were exotic places. They were filled with
plant and animal life from a thousand different planets. Around our
manor and the Capital city of Neukoln, he had laid out over a hundred
biomes in nearly a million square kilometers. The estate’s private
gardens, at the center of the national gardens where I walked, were laid
out in an octagonal pattern. They were decorated with walks, fountains,
pools, and statues interspersed delightfully throughout.
My favorite part was the Terran garden. As if it struck some
collective memory inside my mind, everything seemed familiar to me.
The plants and animals on all the terraformed worlds resembled their
genetically altered descendants, but here lived their genetic originals.
Here our world isolated them in purity from the necessary
mechanizations of our terraformers. Their forebearers climbed the
evolutionary ladder with mankind, and now they, like their masters
were established throughout space.
How odd to think that Terra herself had not survived while her
children multiplied.
The Terran system was nearly a wasteland. Long ago, the Empire
established a colony on the terraformed fourth planet, but of
humankind’s original primary, existed only a radioactive ball. Prior to
the Sessionist’s War, luckily, the scientists of Neuterra recorded the
genetic codes of all the living creatures of the planet.
All the plants and animals of Terra could be duplicated from their
genetic information; the planet, unfortunately, could not. Even now
Terra was a black mark on humankind, a distinct warning about the
potency of human hatred and folly. Yet the caution went largely
unnoticed. These days, no one but the Neuterrans thought much about
the birthplace of humankind. They were reminded only because of
their jurisdiction over the system, and because of the work they
accomplished in genetics—adapting the flora and fauna of the original
to the environments of the Empire.
My father’s collection of Terran life was the most complete in
human space. It was a small part of our long-lost heritage, kept
thankfully alive. My father enjoyed the garden almost as much as I did.
And though it bordered his study and offices, he never truly said what
motivated him to place it there, for he kept it under very close scrutiny.
I had hoped to learn the reason sometime—that is, sometime before my
death.
Asa-Thor, the primary of my world, rose with our sun this
morning. The days would be very pleasant for the next week of our
lunar cycle; both our sun and our planetary primary would grace the
sky. Neuterra was a moon circling the gas giant Asa-Thor and orbited
the huge planet at nearly a hundred million miles.
Asa-Thor was an aborted star, an active gas giant. And, because of
the additional heat it provided its large moon, our planet, the
combination with our sun made both the winters and summers
comfortable. Our system’s sun was not nearly close enough to give
Neuterra a properly tolerable climate, but with both sources of light
and heat, Neuterra was a veritable paradise.
The only disadvantage was Neuterra’s diurnal cycle. The human
metabolism could barely adapt to it. When our sun and Asa-Thor
shared the sky, the days and nights were in proper order, however,
when our sun and planetary primary were on opposite sides of the
moon, the dividing line between night and day was nearly undefinable.
Normally, the cycle divided into four weeks: a week of proper light and
dark; a week of successively lighter nights and slightly darker days; a
week of nearly similar dimly lit days and nights; and a week of
lightening days and darkening nights. The cycle, except for eclipses and
odd angular lineups was incredibly regular.
Humans had problems aligning their bioclock to the phenomenon,
and other difficulties presented themselves. One problem was the tides;
a difference of thirty meters was not unusual. The landmass of Neuterra
was lacking already, and the high water didn’t help. Neuterra, being an
old and established moon, didn’t suffer often from the earthquakes that
would have plagued a younger planetoid, but minor vibrations were
common when the star and Asa-Thor were in juxtaposition.
As I entered the garden from the house and walked into the sonic
bordered expanse that held the environs of long dead Terra, I couldn’t
help but notice the young man. To my amazement, he hung out of a
window in my father’s study. He seemed to be trying to get a better
look at the rose bushes in the beds below. The window was nearly one
and a half meters above the ground, and he stretched downward for a
rose just out of the reach of his fingertips. For a moment, I was shocked
into stillness, but then, with a grin I asked, “May I help you?”
He was really very young, almost as young as I. In spite of his
youthful looks, he was dressed in the uniform of a Major in the
Emperor’s Huscarls, the Emperor’s private guard. I immediately
thought it odd a lowly Major should be conversing with my father in
his private study, but then I noticed the drapeau and gold of a
nobleman. Still, my Father had few dealings with noblemen of so low a
rank to be only a Major in any force. I wanted to be courteous, and at
the same time find out what he was doing here.
At my words, the Major snatched his hand back in embarrassment.
He swayed off balance in the window for a moment, then caught
himself with both hands on the lip of the sill. He seemed a little taken
aback by my appearance, as though I’d caught him in a forbidden act.
When he didn’t answer my initial question, I repeated myself, “I
said, may I help you?”
He smiled. I remembered that smile to my grave. I remember it
now: his eyes, a washed gray lit like glowing stones. They were as clear
as a spring of water. The corners of his mouth curled into a hundred
expressions at once, then his upper lip raised slightly, showing the tips
of his teeth. He sported a mustache and goatee. These accentuated his
features and telegraphed the humor in his thoughts to me. His clear
eyes seemed to catch me like a camera. They at once appraised me and,
like a photograph, catalogued me, frozen in midstride.
He looked directly in my eyes. “The garden is lovely, my lady. I
was only trying to sample its fragrance and finery more closely.” His
voice was strong and clear, yet he spoke softly as if he was afraid he
would frighten me away. “The question, now, my lady, is: are you a
part of the garden? You seem lovely enough to be. Are you a wonder of
nature or a miracle of the garden?”
I colored slightly at his words, but I chose to ignore the slight
impertinence—at least, my Matron would have said impertinence. I
answered more boldly than I intended, “You could come into the
garden yourself, then you could discover whether I was a wonder or a
miracle. The door is down a short flight of stairs just a few feet beyond
the next room.”
“I would love to, my lady, but I await the pleasure of the Duke of
Neuterra. I fear if I kept him waiting that might bring out his worst
disposition. Right now I need his most patient spirit.” The young Major
said this with such a bland voice and wry look I could barely keep from
laughing. My Father’s wrath and dispositions were legendary.
I smiled at him. “Yes, I think you’re right. The Duke doesn’t like to
be kept waiting. But here—” I picked one of the roses he tried so vainly
to reach and lifted it to him—“you can enjoy the garden though you
haven’t set a single foot in it.”
My action seemed to astonish the Major. He was taken aback for a
moment, then, in a single motion, he reached down to take my
offering. He grasped the fragile blossom, and at the same time, caught
my fingers and pressed them gently to his lips. “Thank you, my lady.
The garden is indeed beautiful, but you—you are more lovely. I think
you must be a miracle.” He smiled more broadly as he released my
hand.
I laughed a moment, but the eyes he held to mine were full of
sincerity and repeated the strength of his words.
As if taking in the garden in a single whiff, he touched the rose
reflectively to his nose. Then I heard the study door open and shut with
a bang, and I knew the Duke had entered. The Major half turned, then
turned back to me, but I was gone. My father had passions—many in
general, but specifically ones about being disturbed, so my mother, and
I, and all the servants, holders, and common people took the greatest
pains not to interrupt his business.
I wondered why the Major should want to speak to my father.
Perhaps we were related, and he sought a boon. He would find none
forthcoming from my Father. Perhaps he was a messenger from the
Emperor. That might be good or bad. Not much later, I learned, from
the servants, the Major was undertaking an alliance between our House
and the Emperor, or another family, or something. They didn’t have the
information exactly right, but the house staff was always the first to
know…that is, after my mother.
I wandered the garden the rest of the morning and absorbed its
pleasures. I thought long about the man I’d met. He affected me like no
one ever had before. His smile, his eyes were burned on my retina like
sunlight, and his words were like the cool garden. I couldn’t seem to
shake his look or his voice. I laughed again at his pronouncement that I
was beautiful.
I looked at my reflection in a still pool. Yes, I was right, I was not
beautiful: my nose was too small and turned up; my lips were too thin;
my eyes were green, far too common, and they perched in high
cheekbones that trailed twin dimples to the corners of my mouth.
Overall a strange face, and too plain to be the face of a Princess, it was
neither sharp nor delineated, neither fine nor delicate. When my face
was still, it was soft and pretty, but when I smiled, my features
transformed into the wild and impulsive appearance of a sylph. My
hair, curled only through close attention, was straight and black but
also soft. It fit my face and figure. I was as slight as my features were
thin. I was a wand of a woman, but if one looked closely, I thought, in
the smaller perspective of my proportion, you could see the fullness of a
woman nonetheless. Boughs and leaves framed my reflection in the
pool, and I fit the frame. I could have been a dryad, a woodland nymph,
a part of the garden itself—a miracle of the garden.
I laughed again. I liked the young Major. Somehow he’d touched
my thoughts as no one ever had, but I was sure he was wrong about my
beauty. If he wanted to compare beauty, he should see Tamar. Why
couldn’t I look at least a little like her? I sighed. Well Tamar was my
best friend, and she would have traded looks with me, if she could, and
if I asked her. That took me to other subjects much less happy than the
one I’d started with. I did not want to pursue those difficulties now, so I
went back into the house to talk to the servants about the Major.
I met Benet, the Major Domo, just outside the kitchens. Benet was
a graying Sergeant Major who happened to also be my father’s chief
valet. Benet stood ramrod straight. As if the battlefield were moments
rather years away, he was belted elegantly and stiffly into his uniform.
An old scar transfixed his nose and cheek and disfigured a large portion
of his face. As a child, I traced the deep pattern of that scar a thousand
times and begged over and over to hear the account of the daring action
that produced it.
I spoke idly to Benet for a few moments and finally asked him,
“Who is the Huscarl Major with my father?”
He laid a finger on the side of his misshapen nose and pronounced
in his usual cool voice, “I don’t know the Major’s name, though I did
meet him at his ship and convey him to the estate.” Benet looked about,
to see that we were alone. “I approve of the Major, but with his
subordinates, for a military officer, the man is much too forward.”
By that comment, I gathered, Benet meant himself. I had to stifle a
giggle; the Major Domo’s impression of decorum went only so far as it
included all Nobility other than myself. I was his friend, although he
would be shocked at the use of the word to describe our relationship.
Yet, no other noble or officer could be a friend or friendly to Benet
without appearing improper to him.
The Major must be important, I thought, for Benet himself to
accompany the officer, so I stepped a little closer. “The Duke must have
been concerned about the man’s rank and his safety to send you instead
of a driver alone.”
“Oh, my lady,” recounted Benet, “I didn’t go myself. I simply
escorted Sir Pershall.”
“Sir Pershall? The steward! Who is this man to invoke such
honor?”
“To tell you the truth, my lady,” and he bent conspiratorially
toward me, his voice suddenly quiet, “I believe the Duke himself was
going to meet the man, but a private message forbade him.”
“That is interesting, Benet. Who do you think this man is?”
“Perhaps a personal emissary from the Emperor.” Benet cocked his
head. “But I cannot be certain. I think what he carried was much more
important than who he was.”
“And why is that?”
“He brought many containers of bookdisks and ancient papers Sir
Pershall bade me convey with extreme care. Sir Pershall seemed very
agitated. I don’t know what got into the noble.”
I thought a moment. “Do you know what the Major and my father
spoke of?”
“Only that they discussed alliances and holdings. The Duke
brought out the Book. They poured over the Accords.”
“Did you see his noble rank?”
“He is a lesser baron; of the realm, I believe.”
“Benet, you know too much,” I accused him laughingly.
He blushed at my tease and became very serious. “My words are
only for my lady’s ears! I wouldn’t let anyone but you know the
personals of the Duke.”
I placed a light hand on his arm. “Thank you, Benet. I know the
secrets of our House are safe with you. But,” I breathed almost to
myself, “I would know more of this young Major,” then louder, “I am
pleased to be privy to this information. I would like to know more.”
“Yes, my lady.” Benet smiled and bowed.
Benet had been a part of my House for three generations. In times
of war, he fought beside the Dukes of Neuterra and, in times of peace,
helped run the estate, train the steward, protect and teach the Dukes’
children. I was his only student now. Benet was a man of honor and
intelligence. He was devoted to our House, and he was devoted to me.
Like a grandfather, he supplemented my initial education with lessons
of survival and honor.
If my sex and manner were a trial to my father, it did me no harm
with the rest of the House. To Benet, the servants, the holders, the
people, I was the Princess of Neuterra. Though I didn’t look like one,
and perhaps, I didn’t act like one, the people liked me. They listened to
me, and they were dedicated to my security, wants, needs, and desires.
When my father gave up his rule, I could have easily replaced him. But
a Princess, in our Empire, cannot rule without a Prince!

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