Withren smiled openly, I presumed grateful I’d salvaged the situation without costing anyone status. “The sun will come out by afternoon, Lady Witch. Will you honor our village by attending our feast-night?” I raised a brow at Laem’sha, not overly sure of the wise man’s opinion of Ram’ad Witches. But he smiled, and there seemed no trace of animosity left in his thoughts.
“Yes, Lady Witch,” he echoed quickly. “You have chosen a fine time to visit us. The last hunt was a good one, and many of the fruits are at their best. It will be a night to remember.”
Why not? I accepted their invitation at face value, suddenly weary of my hermitage between these walls. The three took their leave, to all appearances harmoniously.
I gathered up my dishes and left them at the door, pulling open the cloth as I did so. Withren was right: the rain was little more than a drizzle, and the clouds were breaking open in the distance. I drew in a deep breath, enjoying the smell of the rain-washed air.
A whisper of a step from the empty room behind made me whirl around.
Morgan took another soft step to come fully around the grass wall dividing the back storage area from the rest of the hut. He had changed back into his jungle-used garb. I hadn’t heard an aircar arriving or leaving—or his entry through the rear door. I might have blamed the rain and my guests, but I knew perfectly well how silently Morgan could move if he chose.
Mentally, I slid into a cautious guard, unsure how I felt about him arriving so soon.
“Thank you for the use of this place, Captain,” I said, my voice formal. Give me distance, I asked with my eyes.
He understood, taking hold of a long, hook-ended stick that had puzzled me. “Your comfort in it is my duty, Lady Witch,” Morgan said easily, mimicking the village courtesies in Comspeak. He reached up with the stick, pushing it against what I now saw were a series of wooden strips covering a good third of the ceiling. As he worked the stick, the strips swiveled to admit the brightening afternoon sun, creating mote-filled beams of light. The interior of the hut took on an unexpected airiness. “Primitive, but well-adapted,” Morgan said, leaning the control stick against one wall. “It pays to give close attention to all they do.”
As Morgan went about the hut, intuitively ignoring me, pausing to examine a stack of orange-red blankets (gifts from the village upon my arrival), I relaxed. Things were as before. Reassured, I felt some tautness in the small of my spine let go. But as my inner guard opened ever so slightly, I sensed Morgan’s own mind, thoughts rippling in clear, cool waves I had only to dip into to read.
So he had heard my conversation with Premick and the elders—and having heard my commitment to him, he’d become complacent. Without a word, I attacked.
This was no invasion, such as had devastated Barac. No, what I sent against Morgan’s arrogantly exposed mind was pain, wave after wave of pain in hammer blows no less dangerous because they were unseen.
I watched him stagger to his knees, hands going to his head, his defenses struggling into place, then was jolted by the reflected force of my own power as Morgan belatedly added his inner strength to his shields. From then on, he moved only once, to stand up, legs spread apart as a brace. Our eyes met and held.
I raised a hand to signal enough, breathing more deeply myself from effort. Morgan’s barriers were impeccably in place now. His face had gone white, sweat gleamed dully on his brow. There was an unfamiliar tightness to his mouth. All he said was: “I thought the testing over.”
“How can it be?” I said sharply, echoes of strain coursing through my mind. “How can I consider you safe when you forget so easily? How dare you enter the power sphere of any Clan without your shields in place? You are not ready. Your power is barely under control.”
“Barac said the same about you.”
I felt the blood drain from my face, but held myself stiff and erect. “I did not expect him to understand.” I thought you would, I added to myself.
Morgan deliberately relaxed his stance, though I noticed that his shields remained firmly in place. “And somehow I must?” he said, as though hearing what I’d left unspoken. Before I could answer that, he waved one hand in a gesture that had never been part of his Human upbringing. “That was uncalled for, Sira. I do understand.” A small, mischievous grin. “And when my head feels better, I’m sure I’ll appreciate this latest lesson.”
Good enough. I rubbed my own head at that reminder. “Withren told me of a village feast.” A peace offering. “I promise no more instruction for tonight.”
Morgan’s eyes were warm again. “And I promise to keep up my shields.”
His tone was light, but I couldn’t keep a sudden irrational fear from edging my own. “Be sure you do, Jason. The day will come when it won’t be me testing their strength.”
INTERLUDE
Hastho’tha, a being inclined to bemoan his fate as less than he deserved (an opinion shared by his three maternal and two paternal parents), was uncharacteristically silent as he walked among the tables of the Spacer’s Haven. His fellow employees gave him wide berth, aware of his mood. Fortunately, there were few conscious patrons at this hour to take offense at his surly mien.
Hastho’tha focused a glowering eye at the black thronelike chair centered among the gaming tables at the other end of the tavern. His table wiper, an elderly, wit-wandering Queeb named Krat, shivered nervously, careful to avoid the heavy hands at the ends of the larger being’s muscular arms. “Warlock!” Hastho’tha spat the word, but quietly. “Things were hard enough under Herself, without bearing this pretender. I tell you, Krat, there is no man-thing born that has the power of a Ram’ad Witch.”
“Yes, Master Hastho’tha,” Krat whimpered automatically, having listened to this particular complaint since waking. Its four flexible tentacles wrapped around cutlery as two more deftly smeared last night’s grime into an even layer on the table. Then all six froze precariously in midmotion. “A lady, Master Hastho’tha,” Krat said almost loudly.
Hastho’tha grunted his opinion of that likelihood, but then he stopped to stare at the richly cloaked female who had just entered. There was something about the tilt of the veiled head, an aura of power and wealth in the way she stood and waited.
The instincts of the head server took over quickly. With an ungentle nudge to Krat to continue working, Hastho’tha moved to guide the newcomer to an already cleaned table, eyes busily assessing the quality of her insystem clothing, so different from that seen on Pocular’s streets. “What does your ladyship require?” he asked almost wistfully.
“The owner. To me,” her voice was pleasant, but with an underlying firmness unused to delay. Hastho’tha bowed gracefully, a courtesy so unlike the burly Poculan that the watching Krat put a heavy smoketray down on top of its wiping tentacles and had to restrain a cry of pain.
Had Krat continued to watch Hastho’tha, it would have certainly understood the gleeful expression on the head server’s face as that worthy headed toward the communications panel behind the bar. Nothing would have pleased Hastho’tha more than the idea of trouble coming to the new owner of the Haven, Barac sud Sarc.
“I showed her to the best table, Lord Warlock,” Hastho’tha greeted his employer moments later, noting with barely disguised contempt that the being had used the lift from the apartment above instead of appearing in midair as had the true witch. “She said only that she wanted the owner of the Haven.”
Barac took more notice of the squat, overweight Poculan, something he’d tried to avoid until now owing to the truly repulsive elongation of the protuberances over Hastho’tha’s joints. Some of the pale, wiggling things were almost long enough to wave with the Poculan’s gestures, and stood out against his mustard-toned skin. Barac didn’t know if these were considered attractive or not—and didn’t really want to find out. What he did know was that Hastho’tha must be one of the group of employees Sira had aptly labeled as predictable. A hard worker only when certain of the superiority of his employer. Hastho’tha would hav
e been horrified to know how plain his emotions—including his hope that the lady in question meant trouble for Barac—were to the Clansman. “Take me to her,” Barac ordered, voice deliberately bored.
Barac’s assumed boredom vanished as they approached the table. “A bottle of the best Denebian wine, Hastho’tha,” he ordered, his hands echoing an elaborate gesture the veiled woman was quick to offer him. Hastho’tha’s surly scowl returned, and he managed to cuff Krat as he passed by on the errand, muttering about the unfairness of it all. Krat nodded mute agreement.
“Rael,” Barac said softly, dropping into a seat beside her. Although her features were concealed behind a high-fashion veil, the Clanswoman had made no other attempt to hide herself. Barac half-closed his eyes as her power explored the edges of his own in delicate reacquaintance.
“Well met, Cousin,” Rael nodded regally, though her voice was warm. “Though an unanticipated pleasure.”
Barac, despite a conscious effort, could not keep the bitterness from his voice. “You expected to find your sister, of course. The mighty Sira.”
Rael became still, a more than superficial motionlessness. When she spoke, her voice was sharp, driven, yet a whisper. “Why do you speak of her so, feel so? What has happened between you?”
“Not here,” Barac cautioned, shaken by Rael’s quick perception. Hastho’tha had come with the wine. Barac took it absently. “We are not to be disturbed,” he said to the head server, eyes fixed on Rael. “Empty the tavern and send the staff home, including yourself.”
Hastho’tha’s brown-rimmed eyes blinked in astonishment. “Close the Haven, Master? It’s never been closed—”
Barac turned swiftly, allowing his power to swell into a pain-filled emphasis that made the Poculan cower. “Close, lackwit. It may be permanently. Tell the staff to return only when I call on them.”
“As you command, Lord Warlock,” Hastho’tha stumbled back, black tears streaming from his eyes, a healthy new respect for his employer in his thoughts.
What has been happening, Barac? Rael sent mind-to-mind. Barac’s quick wince told her much. She switched considerately to verbal communication. “You are damaged. How did it happen? Is Sira all right?”
“Sira!”
The name, spoken with all of Barac’s resentment, told her enough. Rael raised her veil with two fingers, reaching with elaborate casualness for the wine. “You were wise to close this place, Barac,” she ventured, voice as silken as the strangely mobile locks of blue-black hair revealed under her loose hood. “I think you and I have a lot to discuss tonight.”
Chapter 6
“I COULD almost believe in magic, like the silly Drapsk.” Full of dreamy contentment and more than my share of delicious white-fleshed fowl stuffed with grains and fruit, I leaned back against Morgan’s strong shoulder, wishing time could stand still a while longer.
“Aie,” he agreed quietly, arm opening to offer me a more secure resting place. My hair quickly entwined itself around his shoulders and neck, then lay quietly as if not to attract my attention further. Perhaps I should have moved, altering a positioning that was clearly a caress, but why? My fears and indeed the rest of the universe were far away tonight, driven into shadows by the soft monotonous rhythms of the villagers’ songs.
And the dancers. They had come and gone throughout the evening on a stage defined by a circle of fragrant fires: sometimes whirling, twisting, stamping their belled feet to drumbeats that ached in my bones; other times slow, sinuous movements coun terpointed by piercing notes on a wind instrument. There seemed no end to it, and yet I was amazed the dancers could maintain the pace demanded by the hours already passed. “Withren says they usually dance until dawn,” Morgan added to my thought. True to his word, his shields were in place, but our surface thoughts mixed easily, unguarded in a peaceful truce.
“Will you join us, Lady?”
I eyed Withren lazily as she approached, leaving the current group of performers. The headwoman looked wildly exotic with her face, upper body, and multijointed legs coated in paint, the colors glistening with sweat. I sensed her satisfaction. This night was important to the village, a measure of the bounty readied against lean months, a chance to draw together. Why not? I said to myself and Morgan with an inner smile, though the mere thought would have shocked me earlier in the day. I glanced at my empty goblet suspiciously, then shrugged.
Withren led me into the circle of light cast by the fires. Fortunately, the dance step of the moment was admirably suited to the rank amateur. The drums were lighthearted and steady; I was soon surrounded by what seemed to be all of the mature females of the village. The pattern of the dance was a stamping circle of eight that brought us closer then farther from a chanting outer ring of males. I laughed at Morgan as I passed him and, following the actions of my nearest neighbor, used my hips to give a fairly good imitation of her swiveling torso. There was an innocence here that could heal.
I don’t know how long the dance lasted. At some point, the male villagers began to join, causing hilarious confusion as they crowded the already tightly packed females. I was bounced from one painted, stamping body only to rebound against another. There seemed to be a large and significant amount of elbow rubbing involved. Breathless, I began to seriously consider moving to the relative safety of the edge. Then I noticed the edges of the dance were spreading out past the fires as pairs of dancers whirled off into the darkness beyond.
A hot arm slid around my waist. I looked up in surprise.
Premick’s painted face was puckered in a foolish grin that was certainly unusual on the dignified hunter. I could smell the local brew quite strongly on his breath. Fighting a temptation to giggle, I glanced around to see how the others handled this sort of thing. As far as I could tell, they were all happily being claimed. I tested his grip and found it to be like iron. “Premick,” I began, as we moved, continuing to stamp up and down quite madly in unison, toward the nearest gap in the fires.
“Premick,” a deeper voice echoed. Morgan stood, unmov ing, in our path. Premick’s drink-clouded mind took note of the barrier, and slowly he stopped dancing. I waited motionless in his hold, uncertain all at once of Morgan’s intention. Surely the Human knew all this was in fun, that I was more amused than perturbed by this evidence of the villagers’ acceptance of me and my part in their celebration.
But why did the music falter and stop? Why was I suddenly trembling as if in a cold breeze?
It was power. Morgan’s inner power, combined with the portion I had given him of myself. Somehow, the humor was gone as I recognized that something else—rivalry, possession, claiming—was going on between the two males. It didn’t matter that I was alien to both, not at this moment, with blood hot from the dance, and judgment smudged by drink. Morgan stood expressionless, hands loose at his sides, but Premick knew. The hunter released me, pushed me aside with one rough hand, the other fumbling for the knife that, thank custom, was left behind for the feast-night.
“Stop this,” I said, aghast at the change in things, still shuddering with the impact of Morgan’s emotions amplified by his mental strength. At least that was kept to the two of us, those now moving to surround us seeming to feel no more than anticipation. They were a basic people, I realized. The tense posture of the two males had its place in their feast-night, too.
Premick let out a low grunt and launched himself at Morgan. The Human moved with incredible quickness, but was brought to the ground with a thud as Premick’s long arm caught one of Morgan’s feet. Frantically, I looked around for Laem’sha, Withren, or anyone with authority. Surely they would help me stop this meaningless war between friends.
There. I was certain the lone figure to the right of the crowd was the wise man, though his costume made it impossible to be sure from a distance. I pushed through to his side with difficulty, the villagers having changed from peaceful dancers to hot-eyed encouragers of the battle.
Despite my urgency, I had to stop and stare at the apparition Laem’sh
a made in the fires’ light. From the mid-torso origin of his legs to well above his head, he had been mummified within an immense basketlike contraption. It was filled with fruit and other foods, much of it pressed so firmly against the wicker the pulp was oozing through, attracting insects and somewhat larger visitors who peeked at me before rustling out of sight. I could only imagine what it felt like to be on the inside. Between the ripe food and garlands of flowers, competing aromas blasted my senses.
There was, as the living larder turned toward me, a hole at face-height. In the shadow, I could make out a pair of eyes. I supposed he had to be able to see where he was dancing. “Laem’sha,” I said, gathering myself. “You—” Then I leaped back, startled into a cry by a hideous creature lunging at me from its hiding place at shoulder-height. It was the size of my fist, but had jaws that opened much wider, revealing multiple rows of green teeth and two forked tongues. The protruding eyes were glazed over, as if the creature were blind. I wasn’t sure which was more repulsive: its bloated, four-footed body, or the yammering screech with which it continued to threaten me.
Laem’sha, for I had been right in that identification, quickly produced a pulp-smeared hand to soothe his pet, if that monstrosity could ever be called such. Amazingly, the creature calmed at once. With its huge mouth closed, body slimmed, and its eyes more reasonably held in sockets, it looked better, but remained more nightmare than nature. “My truthsayer, Lady Witch,” the wise man said by way of introduction, stroking the thing on a patch of brown fur between its eyes—the only part of it not coated in small, irregular spines. “You are troubled by this?” Laem’sha waved his fingers at the two figures now rolling perilously close to one of the fires, the crowd roaring its approval.
“It may be your custom, Laem’sha,” I said dryly, recovering from the scare his creature had given me. “It’s certainly not mine. Can we stop it, without offending your ways?”
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