I knew where Jason Morgan was—I always knew. Just the sound of his name in my mind sent echoes along that subtle link that bound me to the deepest part of his cool, crisp thoughts. I stopped the reverberations before they troubled his peace. “Morgan sleeps,” I said, bringing a soft smile with me from that tenuous contact. “You will see him before long, Barac,” I promised, and said no more.
My kinsman would learn soon enough about the man who had changed so much about our lives and been forever changed himself.
INTERLUDE
“There.” The compactly built, brown-haired Human input the last reading, then stretched from his huddle over the locator with satisfaction in his clear blue eyes, one hand brushing shreds of moss from his faded spacer coveralls. “We’ll be able to find them next season without a problem. Should be as good a crop or better, don’t you think, Premick?”
Premick, as befitted a hunter of his rank and dignity, did not quite laugh, but there was a suspicious twitching at the corners of his narrow mouth. “I am no expert on lumps in the ground,” the Poculan answered in passable Comspeak as he rose to his full height, head and shoulders above the smaller Human. “Ask me about the nasar.” Typical of the jungle-dwelling race of his species, Premick was spider-thin, the warty surface of his skin a light yellow, a color shared by the outer rim of his eyes. He was humanoid only from a distance, having triple-jointed arms and legs, each joint with its fleshy protrusions—a curious adult trait Poculans were unwilling to clarify for aliens. His legs didn’t drop from his hips, as would a Human’s. Instead, they began about a third of the way up the straight torso, originating sideways before bending toward the ground. It was a feature Poculans commonly used as a convenient horizontal ledge to support the weight of not-inconsiderable waist packs.
Jason Morgan, trader and Captain of the Silver Fox, patted his own well-stuffed carrysack. “As I’ve told you before, my friend, each of these tasty lumps will bring in the price of ten of your pelts—and at much less risk to our own hides.”
This time Premick did laugh. “Maybe offworlders value them. I will settle for those ten pelts.” The delicate fur of this planet’s largest carnivore was both status and currency for his people, and the hunter was understandably bemused by the Human’s search for the rare merle truffle. To each his own, Morgan said to himself. Having the Fox sitting planetside with empty holds ate far too many credits each day for comfort—the truffles rounding out his sack should ease that problem nicely, if the information on their market value provided by a certain restauranteur of his acquaintance was as reliable as ever.
Premick waited impatiently as Morgan collected his equipment, including the sketch pad and stylus the Poculan was convinced the Human slept with, and finally announced he was ready to leave the glade. With a snort of relief, Premick gathered up his own carryroll with one easy sweep of a long, bare arm, the other already cradling a snub-nosed rifle. Primitive though his people might seem in appearance and lifestyle, they did not scorn technology that gave them an edge against Pocular’s many predators.
Morgan hurried to follow the rapidly-moving form of his guide along the narrow forest trail, his mind already calculating the number of truffles needed this season to cover docking fees.
“Ghsst!” Premick’s irritated hiss moments later brought Morgan back to himself. The hunter must have found some sign of a worthwhile quarry ahead, and Morgan’s steps were careless and noisy. Morgan accepted the rebuke, slipping into the lithe stalk that he had learned on another world, when his quarry had had reasoning brains and weapons more similar to his own.
Following Premick, often no more than a glimpse of yellow-brown deliberately allowed so that his companion would not be lost completely, Morgan once more let his mind wander. Not back to the Fox, and his own marginal credit; rather, he returned to his practice, to playing a game that had begun almost a year ago.
Premick, whose people had a trace of mental talent—his own sufficient to have led him to choose Morgan over other would-be trappers—acknowledged Morgan’s preoccupation with a resigned shrug and a roll of his eyes. The Human knew when to free himself of the extra burden of concentration. And his now-silent, graceful movements were not bad at all for an offworlder.
The game. Morgan first dove deep within his mind, seeking the warm and golden place, the presence that was part of him yet had once been another’s. Ah. It was akin to being shocked, that initial sensation of contact reestablished. Then came the recognition of power, of mental abilities stretched far beyond what he had ever known before. But it was power without complete control—which was, after all, the purpose of the game. The game imposed by the powerful daughter of di Sarc without consultation or appeal. She called it survival.
Morgan gave less of his conscious mind to his external surroundings, depending on Premick to warn him if he was needed to do more than follow quietly. At times, these stalks could lead them for hours down dark, mossy trails. More often than not, their quarry would elude them, though never because Premick lost the scent. So there was time to resume the game. A flash of power sent along a well-used pathway in that other place, the M’hir, would be enough. Morgan paused, ready—defenses in place, signal sent.
But the almost instantaneous reply was not the mind-wrenching test Morgan had expected. Instead, words formed softly around his thoughts: Hello, Jason. I’ve been waiting for you.
He hadn’t heard her mind voice for weeks, yet the exquisite balance of Sira’s mental strength was as familiar as his own. Past the faintest of barriers, all she ever truly held against him, emotions trickled through. Concern and, alarmingly, uncertainty.
His own answer was swift. The game, and indeed the living forest around him were forgotten. What’s wrong, Sira? Are you all right?
Warmth, sudden and rare, as quickly gone. Morgan fought the temptation to respond in kind, keeping his mind voice light and comfortable; he had learned to respect, if not enjoy, the distance Sira kept between them. We have company, Jason. An old friend has arrived. Come, please.
Morgan stood still, then nodded, though she could not see the gesture. Sira would not call him out of the jungle for anything less than trouble, regardless of what she chose to reveal. He opened his eyes, surprised that he had closed them, to find Premick seated in a patient crouch, the flesh-crowned knobs of second knees at ear level, yellow-rimmed eyes steady and patient on his own.
“I’ve been called. I must leave,” Morgan said simply.
The being nodded, then went on, his tone curious but tentative, as if unsure with a topic they always had avoided: “You serve a strange mistress, Morgan-friend, who summons you home in the midst of a good hunt.”
Morgan’s unusual blue eyes retained some of his power’s glow. Premick might have imagined a flash of something in those eyes that made him shiver. Yet Morgan’s voice was good humored. “You complain about my witch, Hunter?” the Human said, shifting his load of truffles to his other shoulder. “And what about your sisters? Are they not why you enjoy my company and hunt the poor nasar?” Amid mutual laughter that hid both regret and apology, the pair turned back toward their camp of two seasons, disappearing into the trees as easily as their reprieved prey.
Chapter 2
THE harsh voice held no doubt and permitted none. “You will join with our Choice for you.”
I was surrounded in darkness, so detached from my sense of self I was unsure if I stood or floated in that place. Despite my dread, I shouted: “I have made my Choice!”
A different voice, still faceless in the dark, soft and sad. “There is no Choice for you. There never was. There never will be. You are the most powerful Chooser to ever live. How could there be a candidate for you? Would you kill him? Kill him? Kill him?”
Did I begin to spin, or were the echoes making me dizzy? “I won’t kill him. I won’t—”
A new voice, with the crackle and snap of a campfire behind it. “It is the most unnatural self-control—what will you do when it breaks and he dies at you
r touch? What will you do when you’ve murdered him?”
Somehow I closed my eyes, seeking an inner, more tangible darkness, a point of reference to lead me out of the old, familiar nightmare. I felt my body under the sheets and knew I was awake.
More sleep would elude me. I accepted this as normal; my eyes snapped open to stare at the city-dimmed stars that showed through the ceiling ports. This was my weak time, when the tasks I had set myself seemed both futile and hopeless, my life as muted as those distant stars. It was part of what I had become since restoring my memory—this self-doubt that I acknowledged only in the dark and alone. Life had been clear to Sira di Sarc, who had plotted to risk the life of a Human to save her kind. It had been clear to Sira Morgan, the person I’d become when my memories and powers had been stripped away, leaving someone who learned to love.
Now? Now I was something lodged between those two, like a piece of meat stuck between teeth. And my life and loves were anything but clear to me.
Impatiently, I reached for the lights, only to have them come on before my hand touched the control. I blinked at the figure revealed half-curled in a lounge under a circle of brightness.
It’s good to see you, my thought sped out, unchecked and honest.
Morgan stretched, a lazy, familiar movement, almost feline. His coveralls were jungle-stained and his blue eyes smudged with weariness. “You called me,” he said aloud. “You knew I would come.” And unspoken, without reproach: I would have come before.
“You are still at risk,” I countered, aloud, and stood. Part of me felt the effect of my nakedness on Morgan, shared it as heat on my skin; part of me was fiercely glad of the strength in him when he brought this under control, too, even as I shivered in the abrupt shared chill. It gave me hope.
I slipped my arms into a robe and led the way into the galley. I didn’t ask how long Morgan had been there, or what he thought of my sleeplessness. How he’d arrived unnoticed in my bedroom was simplest of all—the protections around this building were his.
We were partners once more; a transformation as easy in the end as shared sombay and toast. Our conversation was of small, immediate things. Although there was no good reason to delay telling Morgan that Barac was here—in the next room, in fact—I was loath to do so. It was the newer part of me which had grown sensitive and which I was continually torn between exorcising and sheltering. Once I recognized the weakness, I put my cup down firmly to announce, “Barac came to the Haven last night.”
There was, of course, no reaction to be read on Morgan’s regular features, a lack perhaps more meaningful than any surprise. His eyes glowed slightly. “How is he?”
I looked at him sharply, suspecting humor. “Aren’t you more interested in why he’s here, Jason? This is no casual reunion as your kind are prone to do. It is not the Clan way.”
A definite chuckle. Morgan leaned back comfortably, contemplating his callused, broken-nailed hands. I noticed his body looked well-used: hardened, made leaner and more graceful by his time in the jungle. I knew his mind would show the same toughening. “Point taken, Clanswoman,” he said after a moment. “But if you knew why Barac had come, you wouldn’t have called me. So perhaps my question is important after all.”
The Human continually impressed me with his insight. I knew better than to judge those insights as lesser in value because they were not always based on his Talent. That was the trap my kind had fallen into when they first encountered his species—so outwardly alike, so inwardly different. In my partnership with Morgan, our differences were our greatest strength. Rising, I collected our cups and tossed them into the kitchen’s receiver. I could have left them for the servants in the morning; I didn’t choose to share that much of him. “Barac says the Council has forced him into exile,” I explained. “They have refused him Choice.”
“Do you believe him?”
“Why shouldn’t I?” I countered sharply. “He’s my kin.” Morgan just raised one brow. I sighed. It was my obligation to give Morgan only the truth. “Barac believes it, at any rate.”
“So we don’t really know why Barac’s here,” Morgan said, a small frown forming between his eyes. He tapped the table thoughtfully. “I don’t like this, Sira. I don’t like this at all.”
“What do you suspect?” I lifted one hand and waved it in the air. “That he’s been subverted by the Council to seek us out and infiltrate us as though we were one of those secret societies your species delights in?”
Morgan met my eyes, his own dark blue and somber. “And who has more secrets than any Human society ever known, my dear Clanswoman?”
“Fair enough,” I acknowledged the truth of what he said. Only a very small, select group of Humans and other aliens knew of the Clan or of its settlements on Human worlds—information spread when Morgan and I had become an interspecies’ experiment gone astray. The taste of it was still in my mouth: the bitter hurt of being used by my own kind. My own role in that experiment didn’t improve the flavor.
“It’s something happening now, something new,” Morgan pondered aloud. I listened, shaking myself from the black mood I knew perfectly well he’d sensed in me. As usual, I wasn’t sure if I was annoyed or reassured by such empathy.
Morgan had continued, “On the other hand, Sira, we could be looking too hard for answers. Once in a while, things are as they seem.” A humorless grin. “But let’s be mildly careful. No need for Barac to know that you were concerned enough to call me. If he asks, let’s say I came back on my own—my hunt having provided too little profit and too much discomfort. As Barac thinks walking on a sidewalk in the rain is suffering, he’ll have no trouble believing that!” Decision made, Morgan stood, sweeping some crumbs into one hand and pushing in his stool.
“Was it?” I stopped my own movement to ask.
Morgan paused and looked at me, wiping the crumbs into the disposal. There was no missing the warmth in his eyes now. “When you are finished with this place, Sira, I have a world to show you—a world bursting with life that refreshingly cares nothing about the affairs of Clan or Human.” A shrug. “As for profit, well, Premick will sell enough after our expenses to dowry one sister out of his hut at least. And I was able to trade for express passage here—and this.” With a small flourish, Morgan opened the closure of his upper chest pocket and reached in to withdraw a ball of soft, white leather. “For you.”
I made no move to take it from his hand, regarding Morgan and his gift with equal distrust. “Why?”
A smile that might have been wistful. “Now you ask the wrong question. Aren’t you curious about what it is?”
I found I had to close my eyes briefly to regain control over emotions this Human persisted in arousing. Anger made my voice less than steady. “Is it your purpose to test me, Captain Morgan?”
He knew what I meant. He knew the chaos within me, the struggling dual reactions that only the discipline of years held in rational balance. Yet he continued to smile down at me, seemed to move closer. “A test, Fem di Sarc? Would I presume so against my own teacher? No.” He reached out carefully, as if afraid I’d disappear, and pressed the ball into my unresisting hand. Words, borne over the barest hint of deep emotion, flooded into my mind. Humor my humanity. This reminded me of you.
I clenched my fingers into a fist around Morgan’s gift, feeling a hard roundness within it. All I could do was to hold myself rigid, looking down at our hands still touching, using all of my will to stay apart, to refuse to acknowledge the currents of need charging the air.
My hair betrayed me, slipping over my shoulders, alive, twining up his arms, brushing softly against his cheeks. I followed its movements with my eyes, unwilling witness to the paling of Morgan’s tanned face, the working of his throat, the triumphant darkening of his clear blue eyes. The straining between us was intolerable as our eyes maintained that contact.
I broke first—tearing away, turning to lean against the counter, breathing heavily in near sobs. “There is no other way. You know that. We
must be apart, I your teacher only, or we are both doomed.”
“Sira—” softly, a sound like warm air stirring my hair.
I shook my head, glad I wasn’t facing him. “Unwise, Jason. You are very unwise.”
There was no answer.
He was gone. I reached up to order my now-obedient hair and felt Morgan’s gift still in my hand. Rage at my lack of control—and Morgan’s easy accomplishing of it—made me start to fling the thing across the room.
I forced myself to stop. There was nothing to be gained by continuing to react on this emotional level. So Human, I thought, without the scorn of my heritage and training. In many ways, the time I’d thought myself Human had been the best, or at least the simplest, of my life. I put Morgan’s gift on the counter and smoothed out the leather. I gasped at what lay within its wrapping.
It was a small gemstone, crudely shaped and polished by hand, yet arresting in the clarity of its deep blue color and fierce reflection of light. Its shape, like a pair of merged ovals, was very familiar. I created an illusion of this same stone on my forehead each time I appeared as a Ram’ad Witch in the Haven—for this must be a true witchstone such as given to initiates of magic among the tribes on this planet. Morgan must have had enough truffles to keep the Fox out of debt for months, yet he had bought this.
The gift, and its giving, held a message I could not misunderstand. Morgan wanted an end to the illusions—for me to return to an existence where I could be who and what I was. With a sudden deep calmness soothing my mind, I knew he was right. I might be his teacher in matters of power, yet Morgan was my teacher in matters of life. So be it.
Ties of Power (Trade Pact Universe) Page 3