An Abyss of Light (The Light Trilogy) by Kathleen M. O'Neal Page A

still—”
    “Fan out,” Rathanial ordered. “Go!”
    People raced away, snapping twigs and branches in their haste. Mikael’s muffled sobs carried on the cool wind. Zadok stood still, gazing absently at the tall pines covering the slopes. The trees highest on the mountains flailed wildly in the wind.
    “You, too, Rathanial. Go.”
    “Are you sure you don’t need—”
    “I don’t.”
    The white-haired man nodded in slow deliberateness and tramped away through the underbrush. Zadok sucked in a deep breath of the pine-sharp air and bent to remove the ring. Six hundred years old, it had belonged to his great-grandmother. A sacred gift from one of the Zaddiks, holy men, of old Earth. The sapphires and emeralds forming the triangle within a triangle sparkled in the dim light of the cloudy day.
    He winced at the still warm feel of his daughter’s flesh, recoiling involuntarily. She couldn’t have been—dead—for more than an hour. He felt suddenly sick and dazed, heart stricken too sore for tears. Memories welled up like a flock of frightened birds, darkening the sky of his soul. He remembered playing dolls with her when she was five, and teaching her the ancient songs, her tinny seven-year-old voice screeching in his ears, holding her close when she woke up from nightmares in the darkness. She’d suffered so many bad dreams all her life. A portent? “Ezarin. My Ezarin.”
    Forcing himself, he reached out again and gently removed the ring, then slipped it in his robe pocket.
    “Who would do this?” With quivering fingers he tenderly stroked her arm one last time. “You know how much I loved you. Epagael will keep you until I get to Arabot.”
    Shouts came from the forest ahead, echoing around the steep slopes. Zadok rose tiredly and looked up into the dark clouds roiling over the peaks. Cold mist sheeted his face.
    “God?”
    A roll of distant thunder answered.
    “Is it me? Have I done something to anger you?”
    Another shout twined through the forest, louder, insistent. As he tramped through the brush, he slipped into deep thought. Oh, there were endless possibilities of who the … the murderer might be. The Board of Galactic Magistrates hated Gamants. His people had always been fighters. No matter how hard the various galactic governments had tried to obliterate Gamant culture, the people remained fiercely loyal. And it forced the Magistrates to make examples of them, burning their planets to cinders, stealing their children, cutting off their trade routes.
    “Our goal,” Zadok mouthed the Magisterial hard-line, “is to cleanse social wounds by breaking down the walls of cultural separation.” They meant, of course, destroying Gamant religion and lifeways.
    “Fools.” Gamants would never willingly give up their heritage. Though, he admitted woefully, many had under threats of starvation or death. But that was different, unavoidable.
    And there were other enemies, hundreds of them.
    Movement caught his eye. He turned, searching the lacing maze of pines. “Macus?”
    Like an echo in his soul, he seemed to hear the faint strike of glass against wood. A Darkness moved through the trees, casting a long cold shadow over him. He jerked around, searching.
    “Rathanial? … Who’s there!”
    Seconds later, a heavy thud sounded, and a faint cry climbed the slope on the wind, someone screaming, “A leg … dear God.”
    Zadok clutched the brown fabric over his heart and squeezed his eyes closed. “Part of a pattern,” he murmured in anguish to himself. When he’d reached the age of thirteen and learned the truth about his mother’s and grandmother’s deaths, he’d thought they formed part of a terrible plot. But his father had sternly assured him his thoughts were fantasy.
    “Abba?” Macus’ thin voice called. “We’ve … we’ve found her.”
    Zadok stood paralyzed, tears welling in dreadful knowledge. He couldn’t force himself to move. His weak legs remained rooted to the wet