Bhotta's Tears: Book Two of the Black Bead Chronicles

by J. D. Lakey

  “I am hiding,” she said simply. “Tell Tam I have gone home.” Cheobawn took back the bubble, settling it again, just on the edge of her body before she walked, sliding her feet along the stone one step at a time as she head towards the South Gate. It took every conscious part of her mind. Had she been walking along a balance beam over an abyss, she would not have had to work harder.

  The gate nearly stymied her. Could one ward a mindless thing? Did she even want to ward the security system? She needed to be seen to be allowed entrance. Cheobawn breathed out slowly around her confusion. There was no help for it. She eased her bubble around the gate kiosk and placed her palm on the pressure plate. Looking up into the lens of the camera on the com unit, she waited for it to recognize her hand print.

  “Where’s the rest of your Pack, Little Mother?” Bindle’s voice asked from the speaker set above the pressure plate.

  “Vinara has thrown me out of the stables. I upset the fenelk,” Cheobawn said. This was not a total lie. She waited.

  “You are out on a group tag. You will just have to wait until they finish,” Brindle said. Cheobawn made a show of looking over her shoulder and biting her lip. She even managed to make her lip tremble a bit.

  “OK. I will just go tell Sybille,” she said uncertainly.

  “Urgh! Don’t do that,” he said hastily. There was a long silence from the other side of the gate. “Alright. Get in here.” The gate swung open. Cheobawn scampered through, the bubble in her mind collapsing. She turned to watch the stable yard disappear behind the rapidly closing gates. Vinara and Sybille had stopped arguing. Hayrald was looking around, his eyes hunting for something lost. Megan was looking at the gate. Tam followed his Alpha Ear’s gaze, a puzzled look on his face. Cheobawn smiled and waved at them just as the doors snicked shut.

  The biggest question of the moment was whether Sybille or Vinara would come carrying tales of her misbehavior to Mora. That was almost a certainty. But would it be now or later? Was she about to endure the attention of the High Council for the second time in under a double handful of days? For the first time in her life, Cheobawn felt she had a defensible position. Her actions had been logical, the results productive. What did one do in this instance? Perhaps being the first one to present a case before the person who would judge you might give you an advantage in a dispute.

  She turned towards Bindle. He was writing something on a white slip of paper. When he was done, he hung it over the yellow token that represented her Pack.

  “What did you write?” Cheobawn asked, curious. “Are you going to be in trouble for breaking the rules?”

  “It says a little Black Bead who cannot seem to keep her nose clean broke ranks with her Pack and abandoned them,” Brindle said sternly. “Tell me you have not set Vinara into an uproar. You will be banned for life from the stables, mark my words.”

  Cheobawn was curiously untroubled by Brindle’s reference to her omeh or her well deserved scolding. “Vinara? It is Sybille whose rage you feel pounding through the panels of that gate. She is … very scary.”

  Brindle snorted, trying not to smile.

  “Truer words, Little Mother, truer words.”

  “If Hayrald asks, I have gone looking for Mora,” she said.

  “Oh, and Brindle?”

  “What?”

  “Thank you. You are very kind.”

  “Pfft,” Brindle snorted, waving her on. Cheobawn smiled and scampered away.

  Chapter Twelve

  Cheobawn’s bemused state of mind lasted all the way up the South Avenue and across the central plaza to her apartment. The Coven, out of sheer necessity, occupied the upper floors of the apartment building closest to the infirmity. A small garden buffered the front of the building from the busy thoroughfares. The business offices of the High Mother took up the ground floor but Mora’s office was upstairs inside the family quarters.

  Cheobawn went around the side of the building and took the private stairway up to the second floor. With every step she became more and more convinced that she was doing something right, for once. The black bead in her omeh seemed less a burden and more a statement of fact. She was different. There was no getting around that. But she was tired of people telling her she needed to feel ashamed of who she was. Perhaps Good Luck and Bad Luck were just the same thing, like spirals of ambient, traveling in opposite directions, balancing each other out.

  She stepped into the vestibule, closing the door behind her with a loud, satisfying thump before veering off the hallway into the kitchen. Seersha, one of Mora’s secretaries, was arranging biscuits on a plate. A tea tray, already set with tea cups, spoons, and a small honey pot stood at the ready. Seersha looked up with a look of distaste. She was a very orderly person and Cheobawn, to her mind, was a mess that was forever needing to be cleaned up.

  “I have to talk to Mora,” Cheobawn said without preamble. “Can I take the tea tray in to her?”

  “No,” Seersha said firmly. “You always slosh the water and make the biscuits soggy.”

  Cheobawn had done that just once, when she was five. She sighed.

  The biscuits reminded her that lunch had been hours ago. She started opening the tins on the kitchen counter until she found one full of cheese crackers. She grabbed a handful and popped a few into her mouth.

  “Dinner bell is in an hour. Can you not wait?”

  “Mmmph,” said Cheobawn, shaking her head.

  Seersha grabbed a napkin off the tea tray and shoved it into Cheobawn’s free hand. “Don’t talk with your mouth full and try not to make a mess,” she said with a sigh in resignation.

  Cheobawn smiled at her from around her crackers and headed down the hall towards Mora’s office.

  “She is busy!” Seersha called after her, her hands busy with pouring hot water into the teapot. “Don’t just barge in.”

  Cheobawn swallowed. Pivoting on one toe, she walked backwards down the hall for a pace or two.

  “You are bringing her tea. She must stop, at least for a moment, to drink it. What better time than this?” She had learned, growing up, if she waited for a time to be convenient for Mora, that time would never happen. One just learned to find the times that annoyed the least.

  Cheobawn knocked and waited.

  “Come,” called Mora. Cheobawn opened the door and walked in, leaving the door ajar behind her. Mora looked up from her study of the reports on her comscreen and looked pointedly at the door.

  “Seersha will be here in a minute with your tea. I caused a fight between Vinara and Sybille. Hayrald may be upset with me, also,” she began, the litany of her offenses growing in her mind as she thought about them. She sat down in one of the stiff backed chairs in front of Mora’s desk and crammed another couple of crackers in her mouth. Mora stared at her, her face inscrutable. After she swallowed Cheobawn added the most exciting part of her recital. “I think Sybille’s Dancer has adopted me into her herd. Did you know they are not nearly as stupid as fenelk? Has Menolly ever dreamwalked in the stables? I think she would find it very instructive.”

  Mora pressed her fingertips to her temples. Seersha scowled down at Cheobawn as she edged through the door with her full tea tray.

  “You’ve done it again, haven’t you? Why can’t you have simple problems like other little girls?” Seersha asked. “Do you have a headache, First Mother? Shall I make a tisane?”

  Cheobawn ignored Seersha, her eyes on her Mother. Seersha’s words caused a cross look to flashed for a moment upon her mother’s face. It was a fleeting glimpse into the workings of her mother’s mind. Cheobawn felt almost privileged, as if she and Mora had shared something intimate. Cheobawn smiled. Mora returned her look, her face once more porcelain smooth. Seersha saw none of this exchange as she set the tray on the little tea table at Mora’s side.

  “That will be all, Seersha. Close the door on your way out. We are not to be disturbed.” Mora said evenly. “Inform Sybille, Vinara, and Hayrald that I require their presence before the day is through.”


  Seersha scowled down at Cheobawn, suspicious of this turn of events.

  Cheobawn smiled back, pasting a wide-eyed look on innocence on her face.

  The secretary humphed in annoyance and left.

  Mora poured two cups of tea, adding honey and a small slice of the candied rind of the bitterfruit. She placed a cup in front of her truedaughter, remaining silent while she waited for Seersha to close the door. Cheobawn polished off the last of the crackers, wiped her greasy fingers on the napkin and picked up the tea cup. As the door snicked shut Cheobawn remembered the most damning offense of all.

  “Oh, yeah, I forgot. Vinara let Blackwind Pack audit the lesson she had prepared for the Ramhorn Pack. I know they are preparing for the Meetpoint run. It was not intended, on anyone’s part, to go against your advice about the Lowlander subject. If we offend, it was in innocence. Is there a name for a force in nature that takes you to the place you least want to be no matter how hard you wish otherwise?”

  “More than coincidence and less than fate? Yes, it’s called Cheobawn,” Mora said in resignation. “What is a Dancer?”

  “One of Sybille’s bennelk. Her mount while she is on patrol.”

  “Ah, I see,” Mora said but Cheobawn did not think she actually did.

  “Sigrid accused me of bending time but I don’t think that is right. I think the brain can be tricked into not seeing. Like a bhotta mind trap but the exact opposite. Did you know bennelk had that skill?”

  “Yes and no. If it pleases you, I shall call for a recalibration of their psi levels at the next Convocation of Mothers. Would you be opposed to discussing any of this with Amabel and Menolly?”

  Cheobawn blinked in surprise. Her mother was being almost nice.

  Chapter Thirteen

  She spent the rest of the week closeted in meetings, explaining the double spirals, first to all the Mothers in the High Council and then to the meditation and psi skill teachers. She tried to describe in words what the Herd Mother had taught her but ended up running her fingers through her curls in frustration. The Mothers understood the concept well enough. It was the actual process that stymied them. Menolly filled her mind with dreamsmoke and dreamwalked the stables but came back perplexed. The bennelk, invisible to her questing mind, seemed bent on warding her intrusions. Without the testimony of the people who had been standing in the stable yard when she had walked out of their minds, they would have surely thought her story a child’s fantasy. Sigrid was forced to tell his story again and again, every word dissected and questioned.

  Oddly enough it was Brigit who had the least problem with the double spiral. She just snorted in amusement as she nodded her head.

  “Magic does that, when you get it right. I knew you would find your own magic eventually.”

  Amabel had thrown up her hands, exasperated with her wife’s fancies but Mora had smiled a smile that made her face go soft. Cheobawn thought that Mora might believe in magic more if Amabel were not around.

  The Coven would not release her to other duties until they were satisfied that she had told them all she knew. As a result, she fell into bed each evening mentally exhausted. If she dreamed of the Escarpment she did not remember it.

  The day after Lastday, in the early morning of Sixthday, she got up with the sun and went hunting her Pack. She found them in one of the many training halls. They were practicing stick forms in the weapons training room. Tam looked up briefly and then looked away again, seemingly intent on causing bodily mayhem on his Pack. He was using two short sticks to their long ones but it was all Megan, Alain, and Connor could do to dance out of the way of his lethal slaps and jabs.

  Cheobawn donned the heavily padded vest, the leg and arm guards, and put a soft helm on her head. Picking up a long stick from the rack, she joined the scrimmage. Tam turned as she approached, his sticks held at the ready. She had not warmed up. It was a fool’s mistake, one she knew she would regret later. Tam nodded his head, a scowl forming on his brow.

  “None of your witch’s magic while we spar. I want to see what I kill,” he growled.

  “Whatever is fair,” Cheobawn said, gliding around him. The other children backed off, leery of Tam’s sudden foul mood. Cheobawn jabbed but it was a feint. She spun around on one toe and managed to slip her stick under his guard, scoring a hit along his ribs. As punishment, he pummeled her helm with a double tap as he danced away. She felt his sticks even through the padding. He had not pulled his punches. Was he angry or just trying to prove a point?

  “You left your guard open. It does no good wounding an opponent if you get killed in the process.”

  “It takes more than a few love taps to put me down,” she said, circling him again.

  She feinted again. He did not fall for it. She smiled at him. His scowl darkened. She decided on a full frontal attack. Not subtle at all, this. She stepped in low, her stick spinning, tangling his short sticks long enough to head butt him in the midsection before spinning away again. Tam staggered backwards.

  Cheobawn grinned at him. Shortness had certain advantages in sparring.

  “Foul!” cried Megan in dismay as the other boys hooted in appreciation. “Play fair, Ch’che!” she scolded.

  “Why? Where is the advantage in that?” Cheobawn said evenly, not taking her eyes off Tam.

  Tam dropped his guard and tossed his sticks away.

  “You want to fight, let’s fight,” he said, tossing his helm aside. His vest followed. Cheobawn was not one to turn down a challenge. She threw her stick to Alain and began to shed her own padding.

  “Tam! No,” Megan screamed. Alain moved to intercede but Tam stopped him with a look. Cheobawn ignored them. As she tossed her helm aside, she began building spirals in her mind. After a week of practice and demonstration, this would be the ultimate test. If she could control the spirals in battle, she could control them anywhere.

  Tam did not wait for her to sink into her stance. He dropped low, sweeping one leg out, meaning to topple her. She danced over the top of it and followed him as he spun away, a bubble of calm building in her mind. Tam blinked hard, his eyes flicking around the room, obviously blind. She pushed at him with the wavefront of her ward, eased it around him, and filled it with her good intentions. She wished him safe, happy, and content. The bubble became an endless fountain of light that filled her heart to bursting. She wanted to share this ecstasy with him but he did not react as she expected him to.

  “So, even in this, you do not play fair,” he hissed, furious. The depth of his rage surprised her.

  “Why are you angry? Is it because I abandoned you in the stable yard to face Sybille’s wrath on your own? Would it help if I said I was sorry?”

  “Is this what Sigrid felt, here inside your heart?” he asked, his tone an accusation.

  She cocked her head, trying to listen to a thing she did not quite understand.

  “Are you jealous?” she asked, truly astounded. “Of Sigrid?” She began to laugh. It was the wrong thing to do. The ambient flashed with Tam’s feelings. The dominant feeling was not anger but hurt. Startled, she lost control. The spirals crashed into each other, falling into chaos. Tam closed his eyes, shutting off his heart as well. He turned and walked away from her. Cheobawn watched his back, confused.

  “I do not love Sigrid the way I love you!” she shouted, feeling much maligned. Tam kept walking. “Nor could he hurt me as you can … as you do now.” she said in a barely audible whisper.

  She felt Megan’s arm go around her shoulders and it was only then that she realized she was crying.

  “Boys can be prickly, sometimes. He will come around,” the older girl said.

  “I hate boys,” Cheobawn hissed, scrubbing her face. “I do not understand why girls like them so much.”

  Megan sighed and tugged her along as the boys headed towards the showers, their practice obviously done.

  They showered in silence. Alain and Connor did not talk to her, not wanting to risk incurring their Alpha’s displeasure.
Megan tried to make small talk but stopped when she got no response. After they dressed, they trooped silently towards the Common Rooms and breakfast, Cheobawn in the rear.

  Cheobawn stared at their backs. She hated being angry. It exhausted her and made her feel stupid. The effort of carrying it around in her heart became too much. She let it drain away. Without the anger, she could think.

  They filled their trays, piling them high with smoked meats, maize cakes drizzled with honey, and thick sliced bread slathered with butter. Filling their mugs with cold cider, they filed over to an empty table. Tam sat on the end of a bench, Megan next to him. Alain took the spot opposite Tam, as usual, while Connor sat to his right. Cheobawn had a choice of sitting next to Megan, out of Tam’s line of sight or by Connor. She chose neither. She shoved Alain’s tray down and hooked her hip onto the end of his bench, forcing both boys to move over. Tam refused to look at her.

  Cheobawn stabbed a fork into a piece of grunter bacon and bit off nearly half. She chewed, staring at Tam, waiting for the words to come. She swallowed and put the other half of the bacon in her mouth. When that was done, she was ready.

  “Fear makes you angry. This I understand. But I do not understand the source of your fear. Do you think my heart is so small that I can only love one person at a time? Are you jealous of Alain and Connor? Are you jealous of Megan?”

  Tam looked up, his eyes glittering.

  “Sigrid is not Pack. We cannot compete and win against him in the team standings if you do not remember that.”

  “Sigrid’s Pack matriculated into the Elder Conclave. They no longer compete in the Pack competitions,” she said, puzzled.

  “I know that!” he hissed in frustration, “but do you? Must I worry about your allegiance?”

  Cheobawn stared at him, nonplussed.

  “Tam,” Megan begged. Cheobawn wondered what she wished at him. Sanity?