Warrior Witch

by J. D. Lakey

  Cheobawn put her hand on Sam’s arm and allowed him to lead her towards the main entrance to the Governor’s Tower, the rest of her Pack circling her as they moved. It was much like being surrounded by a herd of nervous bennelk. Kirr and Kander Hess, momentarily disconcerted by the well-organized march, scrambled to take the lead.

  An uneasy silence came over the crowds as they drew near. Che studiously ignored them. Her mind was elsewhere. Tam would take care of any threat that might rise from that direction. But something caught at edges of her mind. She stopped and let her Ear sweep through the crowd. The oddness of their harmonics intrigued her.

  “What is it?” Sam asked.

  “Everyone is wearing a bloodstone. I assumed that only the wealthy elite could afford to wear them,” Cheobawn said in wonder.

  Sam cast his eye across the crowd. “Humans have been on this planet for thousands of years. Everyone has a hoard of bloodstones that they drag out for festivals and holidays. It is a great event, this, seeing a Highland witch for the first time,” Sam reassured her. “Is it important?”

  He was reminding her that other things needed her attention.

  “No, I was just reminded that I stood in the Jade Cauldron and tuned all the bloodstones in the city. Now they are synced and talk to the planet and each other. Willa said that no one listens to their stones anymore but Amabel said she was fixing things, fixing Lowlanders. Do you think this is what she meant?”

  Sam cursed and bent his head to ear. “Never repeat that near Spacers, ever!” he hissed softly. “They would burn this place to ash, bloodstones or not.”

  Cheobawn nodded. The Spacer fear of genetic manupulatuon was legendary. She meant to tell him she understood but her mind was elsewhere, in a Temple room full of smoke.

  Menolly, do you think there is any other planet in the known universe where the entire human population wears a quantumly entangled object? Was this your intent when you engineered my Luck? That it would not matter what I did because the laws of unintended consequences would forever take my actions and twist it in upon itself to produce, not what I wanted, but what the Oneverse intended?

  Sam tugged at her elbow. She continued walking.

  There was a checkpoint just inside the front doors. Dominick himself stood there, surrounded by his men. He was dressed in his best spidersilk, the suit black, the shirt painfully white, the cravat a rich, cobalt blue, the large scarlet bloodstone tie tack the final flourish, the garish display of wealth meant to intimidate.

  “I am afraid you cannot bring weapons into this building,” he said. There was a smug look of pleasure on his pinched face.

  Che turned away. She could not bear to see that face anymore. She had fought him in too many of her timelines. Watched him kill Tam over and over again. Screamed until her vocal chords tore and she could scream no more. The only timelines that she could tolerate were the ones in which she had no dealings with him at all. Here he was, a necessary evil. She could not decide if he was also wicked, for he did not seem self-aware enough to understand the distinction.

  Megan touched her hand and turned to stand with her, shoulder to shoulder. She understood. They would proceed or they would not. It was the Black Bead’s Luck that was driving this moment. She would not interfere with that magic and she would not have any direct interaction with this man. If it came to a fight, Tam would kill him for her.

  Sam hovered, confused by her chilly response and unsure how to proceed. Robert calmed his son with a whisper.

  “That is not what was negotiated,” Kander Hess said stiffly, his hand on the butt of the pulse rifled hanging off his hip.

  “Negotiated? I do not recall weapons being mentioned in this arrangement,” Dominick scoffed.

  “This is Blackwind Pack,” Kander said. “They are dressed as is required by the High Coven for such meetings. The High Coven will be making an appearance and they will expect to see their people arrayed as is tradition for such occasions. To strip these children of their equipment would be to dishonor the Coven and the negotiations would be over before they even started. Would you stand in the way of such progress? What have you to fear? They are primitive weapons, at best.”

  Che could feel Dominick’s eyes boring into the back of her head. She thought invisible thoughts, refusing to respond to anything but the events what would get her into the audience hall.

  Dominick went away and then returned. “It will be allowed,” Dominick said, fury in his voice. “But they must keep 40 feet from everyone else in the hall.”

  “Agreed,” Kander said.

  Dominick held out his hand. “But your weapons are forfeit, Spacer. Hand it over.”

  Kander hesitated, his face gone cold, his fist gone tight over the hilt of his weapon. Kirr touched his arm and whispered in his ear. After a moments hesitation, Kander turned his gun over to the soldiers manning the check point.

  Sam reached out and tugged Che into motion once more as Dominick’s men retreated before them.

  Up a flight of stairs and down a long, vaulted hallway that could have held thousands of people comfortably, behind two enormous ornately carved doors, there was a giant room for public meetings. This room was not comfortable and intimate like the circle of overstuffed chairs in the Temple Tower, where an endless tea party took place amid a dense wood of potted plants under the transparent membranes of the living dome. No. There was no view of the sky here. It was just a room whose ceiling was fifty feet above the floor, as if they hoped to someday meet with giants. Cold and utilitarian, was this place. No plants, no seating, and nothing that could be counted as a celebration of the beauty of the human soul. Just enormous electronic images of anonymous men with high collars and ruffled shirts poking out of their grim black suits, looking down from the walls with perpetual sneers. A panoply of all the former governors, she had been told by Sam in her briefing this morning. Cheobawn found the portraits off-putting and strange. She studied their eyes, looking for hints of compassion and forgiveness, as a High Mother might feel for her people. But she found only stony coldness. It could not have been any clearer why the Lowlanders were so strange. Who would choose a Father to be their heart and their conscience? How could you expect sane and healthy guidance from a person who was not intimately connected to the world, both to its deepest, darkest underbelly as well as the heights of its glorious universal bliss? Che stared into those flat, lifeless eyes. She was fairly certain none of them had ever experienced bliss.

  The place was not completely devoid of furniture. A single chair, ornate and uncomfortable looking, sat upon a raised dais at the end of the room, opposite the great double doors that opened to hallway. The dais also had three small pillars with hollowed out tops. Something round was meant to rest there.

  Sam led them to a spot directly in front of the dais, but far enough away to keep Dominick happy. There they waited. Che was patient. When all was ready, word would go out. The governor would appear in person and then, one by one, in the order of negotiated importance, a quantum image of the representatives of the committee from the CPC would appear above their com-sphere, followed by the Scerron High Priestess, and then the Prince Regent.

  The Coven would come last.

  Che had a lifetime of experience waiting for the Coven. She stood, relaxed both physically and mentally, gathering the threads of all the future timelines to hold them loosely in her mind. Robert and Sam Wheelwright, along with a handful of bodyguards, stood close by, talking—their conversation casual as only rivermen could be, talking of wind and weather and the price of linen and rice on the open market. Kirr and Kander and their detail of Spacers circled Blackwind Pack and the Wheelwrights nervously, keeping the crowd of dignitaries at bay, expecting the worst.

  Che looked up at Kirr. He stopped, his ears going down before he remembered where he was and forced them up again. She motioned to him and he crossed the circle of warriors and bodyguards and bent his head as if to speak to Cheobawn but he said nothing, let
ting her speak first out of respect.

  “Did you question the assassin who tried to kill Megan?” Che asked. Standing this close to the great cat was intoxicating. Power oozed from his skin and the bright clarity of his mind was like standing inside a crystal mind. Every world he spoke had a thousand memories attached to it.

  “I did. He had much to tell me. His employers are not from this planet. He was part of a larger circle of betrayal that can trace its roots back to the Core planets. We questioned all his cohorts but there were some who are too high up in the hierarchy of the CPC. They are immune to such legal prosecution. I am sorry.”

  Cheobawn shook her head. She knew what Kirr was not willing to tell her. Convoluted was the clever mind that had pointed those men in her direction.“Do not be. I will take care of it. Just do not stand in my way today. Let it play out.”

  He stared down at her, questions in his eyes. But he knew better than to ask. Ignorance was the best armor, sometimes. “Take care, Little Mother,” Kirr admonished her as he bowed and moved away.”

  Cheobawn bowed her head. A storm seethed in the ambient. Surely Kirr could feel it. What was he warning her to do? None of this was under her control anymore. All she could do was hold on and try not to get swept away.

  She sighed and looked around. Other people stood about, each in their own tight-knit groups. A man with pounds of golden bric-a-brac on his uniform stood amidst other Spacers—the Admiral, representative of all things Spacer on the planet.

  After tasting the mob of commoners outside on the sidewalk, these people tasted flat, as if the light had faded in the room somehow. The Spacers, devoid of bloodstones, were the worst off. It would take much of her power to heal their wounds.

  The governor entered via a small door at the back of the dais. He was a portly man who reminded her of Jonah, with his resplendent golden vest and odd facial hair. The black suit was surely a nod to his predecessors who stared down on him from the walls. He stepped upon the dais and crossed to the ornate throne where he stopped, waiting, looking annoyed. The room fell silent under his hard-edged stare. He was here under duress. Mora had done that. Her Truemother knew how to make people do what she wanted them to do. Cheobawn did not know what kind of sword Mora had to his throat and she did not want to know. Ignorance was her shield. If they finished this day with their innocence still intact, it would a small victory for Blackwind Pack.

  Three men dressed in the black and red uniform of the Governor’s House filed in behind the governor carrying three golden com-spheres. Che was not surprised. She had long suspected that the Coven had been sharing dome technology with the Lowlanders. The servants set the spheres in the hollowed out pillars. A trio of quantum bubbles shimmered into life above the com-spheres. Holograms, the Lowlanders called them, who did not understand the nature of bloodstones. The images inside those bubbles were all the same—an empty room with empty chairs. But soon a group of men entered one of the shimmering fields and sat down, looking bored. Their suits were made of rough linen dyed in varying shades of gray, their shirts rough homespun, the scarves around their collars simple white cotton. They shunned the obvious display of wealth, it seemed. But it was a ruse, this display. She tasted the bloodstones hidden under their clothes. The CPC committee. Who were they trying to fool by this display of poverty? They came first, as was agreed. A herald stood upon the edge of the dais and announced the names of the members.

  The governor bowed. “Greetings from the great planet of Occonomara. I am Dermot Winterglen, forty-fifth governor and leader of the planetary Civil Council.” He droned on for a bit more. Cheobawn tuned him out as she watched the faces in the room for signs of aversion to this man. It was good to know who was aligned with whom. There were a few who turned a shoulder to Winterglen. There were a few, not the least of which was Dominick, who listened avidly. She knew Dominick’s mind. He thought himself better—smarter, more ruthless, more willing to do whatever it would take to shift the power into his field of play. His heart’s desire was to rule this planet, but it was not as anything so plebeian as being governor.

  Cheobawn grit her teeth and looked away. She would have to deal with Dominick soon.

  Next came Oud, the Scerron High Priestess. The bubbles were almost magical. The priestess stepped out of nothingness above the com-sphere and sat down. She was under stress, her skin flushed a dark purple under her simple white robes, her green gill-frills fluttery rapidly in her agitation. Oud had good reason to be afraid. The Scerrons were a private people who dealt best with politics behind the public curtain. But it was a lie much like the CPC's false display of poverty. Under the guise of powerless sycophants, they could move anywhere, do anything and no one would remark on it. This public display was a new thing for them, the attention painful.

  Cheobawn studied the High Priestess coolly. The relationship between Black Bead and Scerron had degenerated from trusted teacher to probable enemy the day she had come down the Escarpment. The alien had revealed too much of her motives that day. Cheobawn had run away from Windfall Dome and lay in the bogs close to death as the sky hunters circled around them, sweeping lower and closer with every pass. Oud had stepped out of the misty place she had shared with Spider and watched with great satisfaction as the bhotta toxins overwhelmed Che’s system and the carrion eaters descended to finish the kill.

  Cheobawn had not understood then nor did she really understand now, how the Scerrons could turn on her. What had Spider been up to on that day? Spider and its insane quest for revenge played some part in this, surely.

  But Spider had nothing to do with the construction of the field-dampening box. Spider did not want her to be dead. Nor did the Prince Regent, Che suddenly remembered. She looked over at the prince’s empty bubble, the memory bright and clear in her mind. She had suppressed this as part of the black box nightmare. He had expected her to survive the box, a belief based on the lies of the Scerrons. The Scerron on the starship had admitted to that. Oud’s sister had said too much, believing she had won, there at the end, as the door to the box had snapped closed. The box had been her idea. She had convinced the Prince Regent that it was the only safe way to transport a psi-adept as powerful as herself. Lies. The Scerron fully expected her to be dead when next they opened that door.

  Cheobawn shuddered. She did not want to remember the black box. Seeing Oud had triggered the memories of that night. It took everything she had to control the adrenaline that wanted to rush through her body.

  “Ch’che?” Tam’s voice whispered softly to her over the com on her ear. “Are you OK?”

  Che realized she was staring at the toes of her slippers where they stuck out from under her white spidersilk dress. She sucked air into her lungs until they felt like bursting and then she raised her head and blew it out slowly. “I am fine,” she said softly. But she was not fine. The need to hurt these people returned, burning hot in the pit of her stomach.

  Oud sat in this place of judgment, afraid, Che was secretly pleased.

  Did Mora harbor thoughts of revenge when she sat in judgment of her people? No. Cheobawn was certain that Mora did no such thing. If she was to make the right decision here, she would have to become just as ruthlessly neutral as the Coven. Cheobawn felt the muscles jump along her jaw as she tried to control her emotions. She had moved beyond anger not long after they plucked the last splinter from Megan’s face but now it had returned. The little girl in the black box wanted justice and Cheobawn could no longer postpone her vengeance.

  The last field filled. An effeminate looking man of middle years wearing a golden circlet on his head appeared. “His Highness, Prince Karleman IX, elected leader of the Royal Hegemony,” intoned a servant. Cheobawn stared at him. Here was the most powerful being in all of known human space. He did not seem like much. Cheobawn doubted he even knew how to wield a sword. He wore an ivory ankle-length robe and silk trousers, both ornately embroidered and encrusted with thousands of tiny seed pearls. Was this his normal formal dres
s or was he trying to distance himself from the politicians and the Scerrons, his clothes a statement about his neutrality.

  The power of the quantum images buzzed softly in the audio pickup of her com-unit. Flynn had done well.

  “Get a little closer,” Flynn said in her ear. “I am having trouble picking up the feed from the CPC bubble.”

  Che met the governor’s eyes and took a step in his direction, then another. Neither Dominick nor his men took exception to her advance, perhaps because Blackwind Pack, with all their weapons, had not moved.

  In the center of the com-sphere triangle, a holographic image appeared and hovered in the air over the governor’s dais, evenly placed between the three golden com-spheres. Mora. She did not need her own dedicated com-sphere in this room to make her image appear here. Using Mother’s magic, she had linked all the stones in all the com-spheres to produce her own image. The High Mother's image towered over everyone in the room, larger than life,terrifying in all her stern and impeccable beauty. Her golden hair was swept up in a perfect chignon and the blue spidersilk of her shifts flowed down her body, across the perfect curve of her hips, and down to the tops of her gold sandals. Her presence here was a testament to the power of the mind inside that head. No one knew more about manipulating bloodstones than Mora.

  Che bowed.

  “Mother.”

  “Truedaughter,” Mora said, nodding. “What do you need?”

  “I have started a war. I need you to broker a peace. But first we must sort out the good from the truly wicked.”

  The shouting began almost at once. The Prince rose and held up his hand. “Accusations? What kind of treaty negotiation is this, that you start with accusations?”

  Robert Wheelwright stepped forward. He bowed to the Prince. “My lawyers have served the papers. Ships were damaged. Crewmen were killed. Damages are owed me and my company. Additional fees have been levied for the emotional duress you have put upon my people. Contingency plans must be made for the widows and orphans. What say the Hegemony to this grave breach of law and order?”