The rest of the camp was a jumble of shadowy moving figures, all armed, most Human. The enemy’s cleanup squad, Morgan guessed, not needing the fearful confirmation from her thoughts. He felt a surge of rage, a hate so deep it startled him. It wasn’t only his, it was hers as well. It was their world’s.
How had it been possible?
Through the prisoner’s ears, Morgan heard a familiar voice. “Well, are you ready or aren’t you? They aren’t going to sleep forever—not without our help, anyway!” Raucous laughter echoed through the camp.
It was Symon, armed to the teeth in the enemy’s camp, a terrible look of anticipation on his face as he urged the others to follow him. He was their leader, too, Morgan realized with a shock that echoed into the girl’s thoughts and made her gasp. He disengaged himself, leaving behind a promise of vengeance.
Somehow, Morgan had kept ahead of the swiftly marching troop, using every scrap of knowledge he possessed about his home to gain a step here, avoid a slower patch of treacherous rock there. He was pursued by more than the threat they posed. Symon was with them, his emotions leaking through his shielding just enough for Morgan to feel them like nightmares breathing down his neck: a dreadful anticipation, a lust for pain and power, a need like poison to drink from the suffering of others. This was the mind Morgan had let into his own, had allowed to shape and teach him.
Betrayer! Morgan barely held in his own thoughts. He retched as he ran, holding his hands across his mouth to muffle the sound.
Symon’s thoughts became more vivid as he neared his goal. Morgan felt his name in them, not in a calling but as an understanding of what Symon planned for them both. Morgan was to be spared from the recruiters, kept safe from any weapon fire. He would be with Symon always, a source of strength if he was willing—the most delightful of victims if he were not.
Fatally distracted, Morgan misjudged his leap across a stream-bed, landing awkwardly so that he hung unbalanced, grabbing at air, then dropped backward onto the rock. It was all he knew for a long time.
It was daylight, too late, when he opened his eyes. Everything Symon had wanted to happen, had craved to have happen, was done. The only victim he’d missed, Morgan, lay with his own blood drying on his face, and wondered why he should even try to live any longer.
Then, slowly at first, the reason came to him. It was rage: deep, utter, terrible, and dark. Symon would pay. They all would pay.
“I met him a few years later,” Huido finished. “He’d eventually escaped Karolus in a stolen scout ship—teaching himself to fly it on the way—then tried to smuggle himself onto Plexis in a shipment of pickled creteng. My pickled creteng. I’d never met a being so full of anger, like an explosive waiting for its fuse. Nor had I met one who smelled so much like dead fish. He—I will spare you the details, Sira. Morgan chose to remain with me.
“Years passed. He became a trader and bought the Fox. We traveled together at times. When we became blood brothers and shared our pasts, he told me what I’ve told you, Sira. I didn’t ask what happened after he uncovered Symon’s treachery, and he never told me. With luck, he killed the monster. But I think Morgan found even he couldn’t fight a guerilla war by himself. I think he recognized the risk of becoming what Symon was if he tried. I do know there are none of the original colonists left on Karolus.”
I let out a long shuddering breath. “I can tell you one thing. Morgan wasn’t a killer then, either, Huido. Ren Symon came to me on Plexis just after you and Barac left. He was looking for Morgan. And he was looking for me.”
As Huido clashed and rumbled in the Carasian version of swearing—or was it cursing—I rocked back and forth, not fighting the waves of emotion pouring through me. Anguish for Morgan’s youth and its pain was part of it, but not a large part. I knew the adult he’d become. If it had taken such a forge, the result was still pure and wonderful.
What I felt the most was grief for what I’d done to him. Huido had been right to tell me this.
Morgan had learned to control the pain and anger from his youth, to push aside those feelings until they were no longer part of his consciousness.
Until I had thoughtlessly given him my rage as well, throwing Morgan’s control so far out of reach that even Huido had sensed it in him.
But did that mean I’d turned him into a killer?
I probed at the missing part of me, the place in my thoughts where Morgan belonged. It was not the shape of evil, or of someone who would willingly harm another—no matter how provoked.
I gazed at the still-agitated Carasian. “Morgan won’t cross that line, Huido,” I promised him, myself, and Morgan. “Whether because I repair what I’ve done to him—or because, in the end, he’s who he is.”
INTERLUDE
Midnight on Camos, at least here in the northern lake region of Nisneae, could send shivers down one’s spine, Rael thought, her arms wrapped around her body as much to comfort her soul as to hold tight the heavy robe she wore. The air nipped, this close to the end of summer. The evening birds—their boisterous songs a source of good-natured complaints earlier in the season—had left for their winter homes, leaving behind a waiting silence. The sky was clear, its stars overlaid by the running lights of personal aircars as the gamblers and theater goers headed back to their estates. Rael watched them pass, troubled—as she seemed to be more and more these days—by the thought of Humans.
Pella’s viewpoint was simple enough: Humans were part of the landscape, convenient producers and builders of the material things the Clan needed and enjoyed. Like many, if not most of their kind, Pella was disturbed by any consideration of Humans as individuals and thoroughly offended by any mention of Humans as beings of power.
Rael left the terrace and went back into her room. Ru, she pondered, broadcast the opposite attitude, the cause of no little friction in their group whenever she and Pella locked horns in disagreement. From what the Clanswoman revealed, be it only in hints and reactions, it was plain she had few if any compunc tions about the blending of Human power with theirs, if it could free the Choosers from the Power-of-Choice. Rael suspected, but kept the thought to herself, that Ru would even support a more physical hybridization, if it could be made possible.
She shivered again, despite the warmth indoors. Was it possible? Humans could and did produce offspring with two other humanoid species; to her knowledge the effort required extensive medical intervention, rarely worked, and when it did, the offspring were sterile.
Whether possible or not, it was an abyss she doubted the Clan would cross, no matter what Ru might think. Where would be the benefit? What would become of the M’hiray, if they were drops amid the vast ocean of humanity?
Ica certainly wouldn’t allow it. Rael made herself climb into bed, sighing with relief as it responded to the chill of her skin and heated immediately. She lay back and wondered about her grandmother, keeping her shields impeccably locked, as always, against eavesdropping.
Ica’s ultimate goal, the one Rael shared from the beginning, had been to learn how Sira had mastered the Power-of-Choice, Commencing her reproductive maturity without harming any Clan or her beloved Morgan. This secret, whatever it was, was key to their survival as a species. The Council’s alienation of Sira, their methods, had only succeeded in driving that vital secret and its owner away from them. Worse, the Council’s every move had been to eliminate the free will of Choosers, to manipulate and use them in any way possible to control the power of future generations. Well, she told herself grimly, Sira was right. There’d be no future generations if the Council continued on that path. Breeding for increased ability would be their doom. Ica and the others were equally convinced of the danger.
The one goal no one else seemed to share with her, Rael told herself miserably, curving her body into a ball under the covers, was to protect Sira’s own free will and Choice. Pella wanted her sister “cleansed” of the taint of Human. Ica wanted Sira’s cooperation at any cost and would willingly use Morgan to obtain it. And Ru?
<
br /> Rael shuddered. She didn’t know what Ru intended for Sira or her Chosen. She only knew it wasn’t what Sira would want.
Maybe it was time she tried the heart-search in earnest, if only to warn Sira to hide from them all.
Chapter 42
WAS Rael the key?
I couldn’t take my eyes from the message in my hand. It was a reply to one I’d asked the Drapsk to send—life with Morgan having removed all of my Clan prejudice about technology. I read it again, whispering the words aloud as though that would help me make sense of them. “To Sira di Sarc. No one has asked permission to use your computer interface. Should I expect such a request? By the way, Pella and Rael are visiting your grandmother in Nisneae. Were you coming home, too? Please stop by and see me if so. Signed: Enora sud Sarc, First Chosen.”
Rael had sought me on Pocular, a sign of concern I’d taken at face value because I’d wanted, I knew now, to believe in her. Pella? I hadn’t touched mind-to-mind with our youngest sister in years. I remembered her as self-absorbed and frankly afraid of change. As I’d told Rael once, I thought Pella would never willingly leave her home unless summoned by the Council to her Chosen to begin the offspring required for her lineage. And maybe, I nodded to myself, not even then.
Yet now, both my sisters were on Camos, the Clan stronghold, with Ica di Teerac, a Clanswoman I watched grow old without wasting a moment of her long life on those with lesser power. Certainly she’d never shown an interest in hosting family gatherings until now.
Which meant, of course, it was nothing of the kind. So Rael was indeed the key to something happening among the Clan, but not, I suddenly suspected, part of the Council.
I folded the message carefully, then put it into the galley’s disposal unit. I set the controls for demolecularization and vented the elements once the machine had done its task. I wished I could do the same to the data I’d left behind on Camos. It was a legacy I had never imagined would matter.
Had Rael stolen the list of Human telepaths from my comp? Enora did not have the Talent to sense any entry into my rooms. No, I decided, not Rael. My sister knew nothing about such systems. I remembered trying to explain the equipment to her once, only to quickly change the topic at the pained confusion in the M’hir between our thoughts. And I found, despite all evidence, I wanted to keep thinking the best of Rael, as I did of Morgan. It was likely the Sira Morgan part of me being a fool.
That left two equally interesting candidates for the theft: Ica—or some lackey of hers—or the one person I’d sought hardest to erase from my thoughts this past year. Jarad di Sarc. My father, High Councillor of the Clan, and the mind behind my almost ruin.
If I tried, I could imagine his face in the polished metal of the cupboard in front of me, lined with age yet vital, dominated by fierce eyes over a hawk’s beak of a nose, an expression of disappointment and pity as he considered what his firstborn had chosen to be. Only I, and later Morgan, knew what he was capable of doing to achieve his personal ambition. Power—his, mine, the Clan’s—was everything to Jarad, a terrible purpose that had led him to justify setting up a private kingdom of discontented Clan on Acranam, with Yihtor to be my Chosen and the means of preserving the di Sarc bloodline no matter the price to me.
Acranam. Larimar di Sawnda’at had been from Acranam, of my father’s doing whether Larimar knew it or not. Likely not, I reasoned. Jarad worked in the shadows. He’d been quite ruthless in suppressing even Yihtor’s knowledge of his involvement, to the point of hiding a message about me in the mind of Barac’s brother Kurr, an unwitting courier Yihtor murdered to keep their secrets.
I saw my own reflection now, eyes shadowed as I leaned closer. Was the same pattern repeating itself here? Had Larimar died because he was following Morgan—or because he posed a threat to Jarad’s secrets?
I thought I saw some of the truth. A group of Clan collecting Human telepaths, perhaps for the same purpose I’d intended, to present them to Choosers in place of the unChosen, to see what might happen. Hadn’t I Commenced? What I’d fought so hard to bring to a trial, in the end having to try on my own, could now seem possible to others. My own list of candidates, helpfully provided by an unknown source on the Council, would be the perfect encouragement.
The only flaw in the argument? Jarad had done everything he could to prevent my attempt to Join with Morgan, short of murdering the Human. Only when I’d gone too far along that road to stop—and demonstrated my resolve to protect Morgan—had Jarad acquiesced to completing the experiment. So why would he want others to try?
Unless, of course, he could guarantee they’d fail, a demonstration to all the M’hiray that the “Human option” wouldn’t work and must be abandoned for his and the Council’s methods.
I opened the cupboard, pulled out the cold beer I’d promised Huido, and closed it again.
There was one person who might know.
“This is not good, Mystic One,” Copelup huffed. Behind him, Huido stood like a gleaming black wall of disapproval, claws half-raised. I hoped he would be careful so close to the Drapsk’s fluttering plumes. “A terrible risk.”
“And if you take it, why to reach her and not Morgan?” This condemnation came from Huido. “Morgan must be warned.”
“I told you why.” I felt myself flush, a sign of emotion these nonhumanoids could interpret how they chose. “The heart-search is too intimate, too direct. I don’t know what might happen. He could lose his shields, his protection from the Clan.” It could trigger the Joining, I added to myself. Making Morgan’s survival dependent on mine.
I’d known I’d have to tell the Drapsk what I was doing before attempting the heart-search, but I hadn’t expected them to panic. “It’s not like a sending,” I went on. “There’s almost no trace in the M’hir—the Scented Way—to be detected. I’ll be perfectly safe.”
“You saw the hunters there for yourself, Mystic One,” Copelup insisted.
“Hunters?” I shuddered at the memory of that presence. “Maybe they are only around Drapskii, a function of your world,” I said hopefully. “The Clan have used the M’hir for this purpose for generations, Copelup, and never seen anything like them.”
Out came the tube I’d used before to observe the M’hir, the one which had shown me the disturbing evidence of some type of life there. Copelup contented himself with waving it under my nose. “We’ve monitored the Scented Way everywhere Drapsk travel, including this world. There is always something to be found.”
“Then how do you explain the fact that I haven’t seen anything until you showed me? I’ve been in the M’hir all my life.”
Huido’s deep voice answered: “You haven’t looked.” His eyes had stayed fixed on me in that disturbed cluster they’d formed the moment we’d started talking about life in the M’hir. I supposed he was congratulating himself on his better sense in staying out of such an obviously dangerous place.
The Drapsk’s fear for me wasn’t making it any easier. But it was a place I’d been in more times than I could possibly count, a place that was literally part of me. I couldn’t afford to fear it, too. I said as much.
Copelup, understandably, didn’t agree. “You think you know your M’hir, Mystic One,” he said with what sounded like frustrated anger. “I don’t think you have listened to what we’ve tried to teach you at all.”
“I’ve listened—”
“Then you haven’t understood!” This was close to a shout, shocking me silent. I blinked at the outraged being. “You are part of the Scented Way. Not users. Not visitors. Your power feeds them.”
I sank back down on the couch. “What do you mean, my power feeds them?” Somehow, I didn’t think the Drapsk was talking about the draining I’d felt when caught near Drapskii.
Copelup turned around completely, as if he needed to be sure he’d sampled all of the air in the room. There were only the three of us in the lounge. I’d thought the place ideal while I tried the heart-search, there being no way to predict how long the process mig
ht take. Now I was wondering how long it would take until I could start.
The Drapsk looked at the floor in mild dismay—I was sure he’d planned to summon a stool before realizing we were still on the less cooperative Nokraud. He leaned against Huido instead, the Carasian having settled himself on the modified couch. The sight made me want to smile, even in my present state: the feathered and delicate white Drapsk tucking itself quite casually and precariously among the Carasian’s formidable natural armament.
“Your power—the Clan’s power—feeds them the way sunlight feeds the fields on Drapskii,” Copelup stated, as if explaining something to a child—assuming the Drapsk passed through any comparable stage of development.
“When I enter the M’hir, those things we saw consume some of my power?” I heard myself ask, as if this made complete sense.
“It is not your power, Mystic One,” Copelup said, plumes twitching as though I’d startled him.
I’d been wrong. It made no sense. “Then whose power is it? I’m the one who makes the effort—it’s my mind that pushes me in and out, that holds me intact while I’m there.” I felt an instant’s vanity, a pride in the strength that was my heritage and curse rolled into one. I quashed it. “I can feel myself tiring,” I argued. “How can it not be my power?”
“I believe that is how you must perceive it, Mystic One. That’s not what we measure.”
I glanced at Huido. “Do you know what he’s talking about?” A dip and rise of the broad head carapace—a definite maybe. Very helpful.
Copelup stroked the Carasian’s great claw with a chubby four-fingered hand. “Carasians are aware of the Scented Way, as are the Drapsk. Remarkable beings. So sensitive, admirable, kindhearted—”
“The M’hir?” I reminded him.
“Yes, Mystic One. I think I see how you are being confused. The power you use to concentrate, to form images of your destination and other minds in order to leave this,” he waved his hands around, “is yours. The power you exert within the Scented Way is what you—attract, that would be the best word, perhaps. Attract. Or not. There is some debate among our scientists.
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