“Wrong,” Sinoval said, twitching his lips in a parody of a smile. “Some… humans… have… honour. You… won’t win…”

“Yes. Some humans do have honour. Not unlike Sheridan, I suppose? Even after all the blandishments of the Shadows, he still wouldn’t join them. I’m prepared for that as well.

“What afflicted you is just a mild poison. A paralysing agent, that’s all. I have far deadlier devices in my arsenal. There’s one I have in mind. It’s very slow-acting. A variable incubation period – no more than two or three years. After which it turns terminal in less than a week. There’s only one cure, and the Shadows have it. I’ll infect all those humans who are too noble, too pure, too enlightened to join my crusade willingly, and I’ll give them the choice. Voluntary slavery to the Shadows – knowing full well what they’ve done. Or death.”

“They’d… rather… die.”

“Oh, Sinoval. Do grow up. Death and I are old friends. They don’t call me Deathwalker for nothing. I’ve spent all my life avoiding her, and so does everyone else. Every day every living being fights to stay alive, whatever the cost, whatever the shame, whatever it takes… It’s the strongest urge of every living being – the urge to survive. They’ll accept the cure, no matter the cost. And so will Sheridan. He will be the first.”

“What? When… will you…?”

“When will I start? Sinoval, I told you to grow up. Do you really think I’d tell you all this if I hadn’t started already?

“I infected Sheridan over an hour ago.”

In Valen’s Name…

In Valen’s Name, what have I done?

Alone in his quarters, paralysed, trapped with his thoughts and his memories and his anger, Sinoval of the Wind Swords clan, Shai Alyt of the holy jihad, Satai of the Grey Council, Entil’zha, Holy One, waited.

Deathwalker they called her, out in the Non-Aligned Worlds where her name was still feared and hated and remembered. Warmaster Jha’dur of the Dilgar. Deathwalker. For decades she had been gone, vanished, believed dead. Sinoval had known otherwise. He, and his predecessors in the Wind Swords clan had sheltered her, given her free rein to perform her sickening experiments and research, benefiting from her insane genius. And now Sinoval and all of Minbar would fall prey to that very same genius.

Outside this room and this spaceship, Minbari were fighting against the Ancient Enemy spoken of in Valen’s prophecies. Fighting and dying. Sinoval had decided to order a retreat. The Enemy was too strong for them. But he had been deceived by the enemy within his very stronghold.

Deathwalker had spoken of her monument, of her legacy. Humanity would spread terror and death across the galaxy and become the very embodiment of the race they had destroyed. What a fitting irony. The first stage of this would be the destruction of the Minbari, the same race who had become like the Dilgar in nearly destroying humanity.

And Sinoval had enabled it all to happen.

His mind was burning with a revelation so intense that it left no room for sanity, no place for calm or reserve. No emotion could ever convey the feelings burning within his mind.

In Valen’s Name…

You told me! he cried out inside his mind. You told me I had a destiny! You came to me in a vision and said that I would unite all of Minbar behind me, take my people to their fullest destiny! Was this the destiny you spoke of? To destroy them? Is this to be our fate?

He cast his mind back many years, to the first time he had stepped within the Dreaming. He had been at Varmain’s side. The legendary warrior-diplomat was dying and she wished one last confirmation that what she had done had been right. He had been a hesitant child then, anxious and concerned, afraid to look up at one so touched by Valen.

“I cannot have a guide who will not look up,” Varmain had told him, in that gently forceful tone of hers, the voice that had humbled ambassadors, prophets and emperors. “You will be forever bumping into things.”

And he had looked up, and what had he seen? An old woman, who limped and hobbled, whose eyes were dimmed and whose movements were slow. Once warriors and prophets and rulers had trembled at the sound of her footsteps. Now she was simply old and frail, and needed his help to walk.

That had been an important realisation. Everyone, no matter how great, fell in time. No one could be victorious forever. He had later learned a saying from the decadent Centauri. ‘Let no man be called happy or great until he be dead.’ It had fit Varmain perfectly.

They had entered the Dreaming and Varmain had sat down, ushering him to sit beside her. She had talked slowly of her past and of her great deeds, all immortalised in legend. They had relived her childhood and her love through the images of the Dreaming. At one point she had stopped breathing and Sinoval turned to her. Her eyes opened and she smiled.

“So much,” she had said. “Valen has blessed me indeed.”

And then she died.

He had not been sure of how to react. Should he leave, call out to the people who waited in the Whisper Gallery, wait for them to come to him?

And then he saw Valen. Who else could it be – a glowing figure who looked at him, wreathed all in light, reaching out an arm. “Minbar’s destiny lies in your hands, Sinoval of the Wind Swords clan,” he said. “You will reunite Minbar, lead my people to their destiny. Through you, will the Minbari rule the galaxy.”

He had passed out then, and when he had awoken, days later, he remembered the vision, and Valen’s words, convinced of the rightness of his destiny. He had thrown himself into his work, training alongside Durhan, then still in the prime of life, working hard to rise in the ranks of his clan. When the war came he was an Alyt. By its end he was Shai Alyt, one of Branmer’s most trusted advisors. After that, he had risen and risen. Made Satai after Sheridan’s assault on the Grey Council over Mars, he soon became the dominant warrior caste voice after Shakat resigned, never having recovered from his injuries sustained in the attack over Mars. Then, with Deathwalker’s help, his power grew. People loyal to him, such as Tryfan and Kalain, gained power in the great fleet being massed against the Enemy, and in the Rangers. After Branmer’s death and Neroon’s disappearance, Sinoval was the obvious choice to become the next Entil’zha. All it took was Delenn’s disappearance. After that, the title of Holy One was easy. Sinoval now walked where no one save Valen had in a thousand years.

And all it had cost him was his soul.

Deathwalker had damned him, and doomed Minbar.

No. He had damned himself, and doomed Minbar himself.

In Valen’s Name! Was this the destiny I was promised? Is this it?

No, said a voice.

Sinoval looked around, as much as Deathwalker’s poison would let him. There was no one in sight.

“Who?” he asked. It took impossible effort even to speak.

You have a destiny. But your pride has subverted you from it. Learn from this. Your destiny is not yet confirmed.

“Valen,” he whispered. “Forgive… me… Valen. I…”

You must forgive yourself. Learn of your destiny, Sinoval of the Wind Swords. You must learn.

His body was suddenly bathed in light. He closed his eyes tightly and screamed as pain tore through him. His arms jerked outwards, so that they were thrust out. Hidden nails of light pinned his hands and feet to the ground.

“Valen…” he cried. “Valen!”

The light faded and he opened his eyes. He could feel himself again. Slowly, hesitantly, he staggered to his feet, almost falling as he did so. “Valen, are you…?” There was no one.

“Isil’zha veni,” he whispered.

Deathwalker. He had to save his people. He had to stop Deathwalker. He had to order the retreat, before his people were destroyed. He had to…