by Chris Reher
Galen barely took part of the large platters of steamed noodles, vegetables, and thick slices of the venison that abounded in this forest. The chatter of the people around him seemed very far away as his thoughts kept returning to what he had learned from both Minh and La’il over these past two days. Each passing minute of their fruitless search for Aletha this morning had seemed to double his need to talk to her about these things, as if the longer he waited, the greater the likelihood of something terrible about to happen.
She needed to know. She had a right to make her choice before he delivered her to the La’il. The danger presented by Chenoweth was no longer Aletha’s concern; she owed allegiance to no one. Galen did not doubt that Aletha would consent to go to the planet, if for no other reason than to realize her potential as adept. But the lies had to stop. He was as much a part of the deception as the La’il had been, willingly or not. Galen glanced at his twin who hunched silent and brooding nearby. She would have to know the truth about Chor, too.
“Galen!” someone called from below the walkway when they returned to their cottage in hopes of finding Aletha there. “Chor, whoever.”
Galen peered down to see Minh running toward him, waving something. He let himself drop onto the soggy ground below. “I can't find Aletha,” he greeted her.
“She's gone,” Minh gasped, out of breath. She thrust a parchment at him, closely inscribed with neat script. It was easier to read than the hieroglyphics more common on this moon.
Dearest Minh, Galen read. I hope to be far away by the time you receive this. I won’t remain here for even a moment longer. Galen cares nothing for me, nor my future. I only now discovered that the brothers have been sharing me like a toy for these past days. The pain I feel is boundless and I do not wish to face them again. I believe that my destiny can only be found on the Homeworld and I believe I can live my life freely there, without fear. And so I will continue north to find the way there on my own. Surely, the Gods will protect me and guide me. Be well, my love, if They will it, I shall see you again.
“Damn,” Galen whispered, his face bloodless.
“You're a fool!” Minh glared at him and he actually found himself recoiling from the anger she exuded. “Now she's out there on her own, upset, fleeing into who knows what dangers. There are pirates out there!”
“We'll find her,” Galen said, barely able to find the words. “I'll make her understand.”
“And how would you find her?” Minh scoffed. “No doubt she's taken your boat and we have nothing here for open water but traveling canoes, far too slow in a race with her sails. There is no way out of here for you but on foot, the long way, if you can find a guide to take you that far. It can take weeks to the nearest port.”
Galen nodded slowly. “We'll fly,” he said at last.
Chapter Eleven
As inspection tours went, this one was hardly out of the ordinary. The facility, like most of the newer ones, was reliably efficient, reliably productive and reliably uninteresting – in fact, it was a model of reliability. There were a distressing number of substandard processing plants further down on Yobar's list requiring his attention far more urgently than this one. Equipment failure, labor troubles, management incompetence and chi'ro shortages awaited him at those locations, but none of their problems were easily solved in the presence of the La'il. He had carefully maneuvered their agenda so that the trouble-free facilities were the first to be visited, leaving the headaches for a day when La’il was occupied with other things.
Briefly, Yobar reflected on the many times that he, as her closest advisor and, in some ways, mentor had maneuvered things, people and events around La’il to make sure that heads didn’t roll. Lately, it seemed to have been his main function.
He followed the facility manager along a glass-enclosed ramp, their footfalls and voices muted by the padded floor and ceiling. The walkway served as an observation platform high above a vast chamber where dozens of adepts and novices barely kept their minds on their work, knowing that the La'il was among them.
Yobar stopped and waited for the others to catch up, wishing that this tour, little more than a state visit for the benefit of La’il’s energy ministers, was already safely concluded. The flowing robes and long white hair worn by most of the entourage gave the procession the look of marble columns somehow brought to life, now gliding soundlessly along the incline, their diminutive sovereign in their midst. La'il, garbed elegantly in deep blue, presented a mask of polite interest to the eager administrators who, believing their power plant to be the cause of her foul mood, were anxious to find ways to please her. Knowing the facility to be flawless, Yobar hoped that someone wouldn’t say something stupid out of utter desperation.
He bent over some charts while a staff member called La'il's attention to the new adepts who had come to work in this place. She nodded absently, overlooking the small islands of couches on which the new recruits reclined, some with mentors at their side. These were adepts of average talent, employed to propel huge turbines by drawing a steady stream of chi’ro into the building. The electricity produced here served most of B’wan Ghor, the oldest of the planet’s cities. It was tedious work requiring unflagging concentration, a combination almost impossible to sustain for very long. On the other side of the glass walkway was an area set aside for recreation where the adepts rested while others took their place to keep the machinery humming.
La'il's presence nearly brought the rotors to a standstill as everyone's attention shifted to their leader. They had been warned of her visit and the mentors were alert to the novices’ inevitable break of concentration, but even the seasoned adepts faltered when she walked through the overhead passage. A light began to flash, informing them of the flagging voltage.
Yobar shot her a worried glance, hoping that this inefficiency would not rouse her already volatile temper. She had not shared whatever had happened between her and Galen yesterday but he suspected that she had taken a few unexpected lumps this time. Now she was moody and irritable and not in the least bit interested in magnets and copper coils. He recalled a recent visit to a similar plant, where some of the young adepts had stopped their work to create a magnificent lightshow in blue and yellow sparks finished with a glittering, bawdy message written in mid-air, pledging their services to her. She had been amused by this and passed their playful display with a gentle wave of her hand, her smile likely felt by each of them for a very long time. Today, Yobar suspected, such antics were likely to get someone killed for wasting chi'ro.
He handed the chart back to the plant manager and gestured for the group to keep moving, anxious to complete the tour. Perhaps La'il could be persuaded to let him continue to the next one alone; events like these bored her even when in the best of moods. He took his place beside her, hoping to hurry everyone along a bit.
La'il reached up and hooked her hand around his forearm. He bent to peer into her face, realizing that she was barely able to maintain her outward calm. Something agitated her, every adept in this building likely felt it, but this went far beyond her usual acid temper. The discordance she projected was not another mood but her tremendous effort to prevent some turmoil from affecting the volume of chi'ro flowing through this building. She looked up at him, an urgent plea in her eyes.
“I think,” he said to the entourage in general, “that we have seen enough here. Lichet will complete the tour; I’ll accompany the La'il back to the tower.” Without waiting for the speeches of farewell prepared by the station's directors, he swept her forward to the end of the glass tunnel.
“We are to meet with the engineer,” one of the two aides that followed reminded them, whispering urgently.
Yobar rushed his leader through a door into a deserted lounge, his mind already shaping a measure of chi'ro into a conduit. La'il's grip on his arm was becoming painful. “Stay here with the others, Tyla. No one is to follow.” Barely waiting for the vortex to settle, he and the La'il disappeared into it.
* * *
“What has got you into such a state!” he exclaimed, helping her to her couch as soon as they had touched down in her private suite. “You almost blew that entire plant to pieces.”
The La’il growled at him. “Don't make such a fuss. I had to get out of there, that’s all.” She rubbed her temples. “It's the damn twins!”
“The twins?” he said, baffled. “Are they trying to contact you? What can they possibly be doing to affect you here?”
“I have no idea, but Galen’s head is practically on backward. I looked in on them during that interminable speech we had to endure and whatever chi spike he’s cooked up just about fried my frontal lobe. They're still in that village. Can't tell what he's doing, though, but he’s got Chor helping him, too.”
Yobar sighed in exasperation and sat down beside her. “Is that why we left the processor in such a hurry? So you can check up on Galen? La'il, I was truly worried!”
“I'll be fine once I know what's going on.”
“Thali is on the other side of the planet now. You can't—“
“Help me, then,” she snapped, her tone prohibiting any further objections. She reclined on the couch and placed her head on his lap. Resigned, Yobar put his hand on her forehead to join the power of his mind to hers, preparing to reach for the distant moon. He raised an eyebrow in surprise when they were able to hone in on the twins almost at once. La'il, too, made a startled sound when she understood what was happening.
“This is no ordinary spike,” Yobar said, perceiving the impossibly large amount of chi’ro that the twins were drawing around themselves. “He's gathering power. He must be raiding the entire moon.”
La'il sent a mental question to Galen who barely acknowledged her presence. His concentration focused on every riser, every last emanation within his reach, drawing it to him, building up the meager resource of Thali into a bubble of chi’ro over the village. She prodded him and received an irritable reply but then, grudgingly, Galen conveyed to her what had happened. La’il cursed. “I warned him not to get involved with her. Now look what they’ve done!”
“He’s making a conduit?” Yobar said. “Will it be enough to transport them to her?”
“It better be, or we’re lost. Unfortunately, he’s probably as visible to Chenoweth right now as he is to us. Whatever he’s planning, he better do it quickly.” She lay in quiet thought for a moment, idly twisting a strand of hair around her finger. Her eyes traveled to Yobar’s worried face when an idea struck. “Maybe there is another way.”
She touched Galen’s thoughts and found him fully immersed in his impossible task, too busy to even notice the intrusion. Aware of Yobar’s growing disapproval, she delved into Galen’s thoughts, posing questions that he was not even aware of answering, and looked to see what he had seen. In that way, she began to form a vision of what had gone before and the people he had encountered on this moon. Some time passed before she had the information she needed and, with a satisfied smirk, broke her contact with Galen.
“What are you up to, La’il?” Yobar said guardedly when she sat up.
La'il slid from the couch and unfastened her formal, intricately embroidered suit on the way to the adjoining dressing room. Yobar barely caught the rich fabric when she let it fall to the floor. Her exquisite body nude now, she walked to a wardrobe and flung it wide, considering her options. “I’m going to get some insurance, Yo,” she said. “I will have that girl and I won’t let Galen’s blundering loveplay jeopardize everything. What do you suppose goddesses wear on Thali these days?”
* * *
Delann stood in the kitchen of his mansion high above the city of Phrar, careful to keep out of the way of his staff as he sipped a bowl of soup. The cook and his helper were busy preparing for a dinner party and their constant banter with the two maids did not abate for even a moment when their master joined them. He enjoyed his lunch in the noisy comfort of the large kitchen, smiling along with the servants but not joining in their repartee. Compared to this merry gathering, the rest of the house seemed empty and unused.
There had been a few days after his return from the islands when he had been ill with apprehension and guilt, worried about Aletha, furious at the twins, and angry with himself. He had felt duped into defying the laws of their gods, jeopardizing not only himself but also his crew. But how could he have known that there had been priests aboard those ships? The emissaries of Phrar were a lazy lot and rarely bothered to pursue a fleeing Descendant. When necessary, mercenaries were hired to hunt them down and deliver them to the enclave’s prison. But for the most part, as long as the demons weren’t plying their evil magic in this town, few of the priests cared to wonder what became of them. To find an emissary taking part in the chase was unheard of.
There had been a report about a small fleet of passenger ships wrecked in the channels, but the only thing noteworthy about the accident was the number of emissaries on board. Some gossip was traded among the townspeople for a day or so and then the incident was forgotten. Disasters at sea were commonplace and discussing them only underscored the peril of their lives. Fanciful tales of remote land wars and the monsters of the northern mountains were the stuff of far more interesting entertainment, made all the more comfortable for the distance separating legend from unwanted evidence. And so the rumors stopped, the emissaries summoned from nearby towns had begun to leave Phrar, and the nagging feeling of dread that rode on Delann’s hunched shoulders as he went about his days faded away.
Now, as things returned to their usual routines, he busied himself with yet another of his frequent get-togethers, which brought his many acquaintances and business partners to this house for a few lively hours. But it was becoming more and more difficult to fill the hours between parties; those long hours where he worked at his desk or met with traders and merchants. His dealings up and down the coast required his presence here in Phrar and his captains and agents plied his trade, legal or not, on the seas of Thali in his stead. It had been a while since he’d felt the adrenaline that his adventure with the Descendants’ escape had pumped through his aristocratic veins. He wondered why he was bored and he wondered if he was lonely.
Not that these past few days had been devoid of company! It just hadn’t been the sort of company he normally enjoyed in his home. Only one day after he had returned to Phrar, a somber group of men had knocked on his gate with the arrogance of absolute authority. They had crowded into the hall, their heavy cloaks and boots dripping onto his polished tiles, ignoring his invitation to shed their rain-soaked gear. They simply hovered in a tight knot, like a hulking, ominous monster staring at him with many accusing eyes. Their blank faces seemed so very similar, nearly indistinguishably anonymous beneath the identically shaved patterns on their pates. Delann had been unable to tear his gaze away from the design – two broad bands from forehead to nape and a diagonal line across it. It was a symbol representing Chenoweth.
The emissaries had questioned him, there in the hall, within earshot of his household staff. They had not been discourteous but their menacing tone and stance never parted from the interview. He had sold a boat and supplies to a fugitive group of Descendants, they said. Two foreigners and a local vagrant. Where were they going? Had he had any other contact with them? Whom else did they visit here?
Delann nearly invited disaster by starting to deny his involvement. But surely dozens of people had seen the twins at his home. While Aletha was a notably pretty woman, it was the foreign twins who would certainly be remembered. Praying to all of his gods for assistance, Delann had launched himself into a hysterical tirade. “Descendants? Aiii Dazai! I was told they were visitors from the north, on a trade mission around the continent! Oh, for shame! Right here in my very home! Guests at my table! What tales they had of distant lands and, I must say, some rather interesting opportunities! Did you know that we could sell our brackwater clams up there for three times more than here? But Descendants! Oh, they blinded us all to that! I had no idea. I must have been bewitched! You
must set after them immediately.”
He carried on for some while longer in a self-righteous froth until his unwelcome visitors began to edge their way to the exit. He gave them detailed and entirely fictional descriptions of the boat and its destination and offered to send his staff to the temples in the morning to pray for an expeditious capture of the fugitives.
After the emissaries had made their escape, Delann barely managed to slam the door behind them and stagger into the kitchen. There he dropped heavily onto the crate of firewood, all strength having left him. One of the maids quickly revived him with a strong draught of liquor, her giggles echoed loudly by the cooks who were nearly hysterical with laughter. The stable boy looked up from his dinner to inquire whether there would be extra wages for having to attend services at the temple.
Delann grinned to himself at this memory, warmed by the steadfastness of his servants. Perhaps it was time to look for some gifts or some other favor to reward their loyalty. He handed his bowl to the maid when something nearby, some voice, called for his attention. “What did you say?”
“Me?” she said, startled. “I said nothing.”
“No? I thought I heard….” Frowning, Delann left the kitchen for the hall, his head cocked as if to hear a sound too faint to be recognized.
“What is it?”
“I thought I heard someone call.” Delann moved slowly to the door leading into the gardens. “Must be the rain.” But it wasn’t the rain. Something had touched him. Touched his mind and called to him, asking him, commanding him to leave the house and walk into the garden. He obeyed, both fascinated and strangely unable to resist, and found himself nearing the estate’s bathhouse. “Dazai!” he whispered. A strange light shone through its windows, red in many shades, splashing over damp tiles and playing across the murals. Not particularly bright, it had been undetectable from the house. But he could see it now; a dull glow shifting as something moved within. Delann put his hand out to open the already unlatched door, unable and unwilling to stop himself.