by Sharon Lee
Wait.
Shackled by her will, though by no means accepting of it, he waited. Waited while the dense darkness ricocheted around them, spilling wild energy—a danger to his lady, to himself, to the destruction of the Iloheen!
And still his lady held him impotent, as if the uncontrolled and dangerous...object that had invaded them was the most trivial of inconveniences.
He coiled himself, making what preparation he could, should she loose him before—
The invader exploded. Streamers of ebon, gold, silver, and green washed across probability, inspiring the lines once again to frenzy—and at once, all was still, and as it had been.
Excepting the figure kneeling on the rough rock floor; back bowed until his head near touched his heels, red hair crackling, uplifted face streaked with tears.
Lute leaned forward—his lady held up a hand to stop him, but did not compel his obedience. He considered the aspects of the ley lines, and acquiesced. Strange energies were at play here, and if this were in truth—
"Rool Tiazan," his lady said coolly. "We bid you welcome."
Slowly, he straightened; slowly bowed his head, and raised his hands to hide his face. "Lady Moonhawk," he whispered. "It is done."
"I see that some portion of it is indeed done," she agreed. "Yet I wonder after my sister, your dominant."
A moment he knelt silent, then dropped his hands and looked to her. "Gone," he said somberly. "Unmade. As was foretold. She stood as a goddess against the Iloheen, Lady Moonhawk. Never could I have struck so true and straight a blow—nay, even in my youth and true form!"
"Stand," Moonhawk said then, and Lute felt her will, compelling obedience.
Rool Tiazan laughed as a predator laughs, with a gleam of teeth and less mirth than menace.
"I am beyond you, Lady."
"As was also foretold," she acknowledged calmly. "You are an anomaly, Rool Tiazan. As dangerous, perhaps, as the Iloheen. Shall I destroy you, to protect our plans of survival?"
"You swore to my lady, your sister, that you would not do so," he returned, rising to his feet of his own will. "Her death does not free you from that oath. And I am come, as she swore I would, to show myself to you and to ask if now you will not join your forces to ours. Since last we spoke upon the subject, we have attached allies of great potency. The lines have been cast for a victory, Lady Moonhawk. We might all yet escape the Iloheen."
"A victory?" She turned away. "Lute?"
Rool likewise looked at him, a slight smile on his face, the fires of his true form very bright, as if the prison of his body was too frail to contain him. Lute shivered.
"Show me," he whispered, "what you have done."
"Certainly." Rool rose through the levels, and Lute with him, until, side by side, they contemplated the ever-changing eternity of probability. Slowly, a particular cluster of ley lines became defined. Lute studied them closely, casting the outcomes and influences.
"A narrow hope," he judged at last. "The enterprise we are embarked upon has as much chance of success—perhaps more. Even if we are engulfed in the Iloheen's disaster, yet we will be a part of the warp and woof and may thus be free to act, whereas you and yours will be annihilated, and your energies used to annihilate even more—and more quickly."
"There is much," Rool admitted, "in what you say. Yet it was my lady's wish that I return and put the question to the lady who has accepted a Name."
"All those who weave have done so," Lute said. "It is believed the Names so accepted are artifacts which will resist assimilation, through which action may be channeled, even against and within the will of the Iloheen."
"It may be so," Rool conceded. "However, we shall not forsake our champions."
"We?" Lute inquired, but Rool had already returned to the rock base.
Moonhawk heard his description in silence, then turned her regard once again upon Rool Tiazan.
"We shall persevere," she stated. "It comes to me that this movement to neutralize the Iloheen future is a jewel of many facets. Perhaps all of our actions are necessary."
"Lady, it may well be so," Rool Tiazan said. "We venture where none save the Iloheen have gone before. How may we, the Iloheen's very children, predict which action will bring success?"
"Or, at the least, less failure," Lady Moonhawk said drily, and bowed. "I believe our business is done, Rool Tiazan. Pray remove yourself, before the Iloheen realizes its error and seeks to correct itself."
"Lady." Rool Tiazan bowed in return, straightened and swept Lute in his regard. "Brother. May we all fare well. To the confoundment of our enemy."
With the faintest twitch of ley lines, he was gone, leaving Lute and his Lady to consider each across the empty cavern.
Sixteen
Spiral Dance
HE'D CARRIED CANTRA to her quarters, performed a rough-and-ready exam, finding the damage to be mostly cuts and bruises, all ably dressed by the port medics. She was still unconscious, which was the knock on the head, or the blood-loss, or both, but not shocky, or feverish. Tough woman, Cantra yos'Phelium, he thought—none tougher. Having assured himself that his pilot was in no immediate need or danger, he webbed her into her bunk, in case they had to lift in a hurry, and gone to tend her ship.
Some time later, Dancer was in queue with a scheduled departure of just under six hours, ship-time. Keeping in mind the way his pilot preferred things to be done on her ship, Jela had given the nav brain leave to suggest alternative lifts, real-time. That done, he'd perused the public charts, finding Light Wing well ahead of Dancer on the schedule, with Dimaj the filed destination, courier run the reason.
Jela smiled, though on consideration that minor subterfuge had probably sprung from the mind of Liad dea'Syl rather than the boy pilot.
From the tree, lashed in its spot at the end of the board, came a quick image of a young dragon, wings still wet, eyes alert.
"That's right," Jela said, coming out of the co-pilot's chair with a sigh. "A likely lad, just needs a little season."
He did some quick stretches, and a mental exercise to raise his attention. He'd lashed the old man's carry-chair into the maintenance cubby just inside the lock, where it ought to ride safe enough. Which left the decision he'd been putting off making. He shot a glance at the panel concealing the secret room and the sheriekas healing unit. If it was only cuts and bruises, there was no reason to open that door. The problem was the "funny" readings the medic had reported on her scans. If Cantra'd done herself real damage, which a fall from that height with a whack on the head at the end of it might produce—
There was a sound at his back.
* * *
RETCHING, SHE CONVULSED against the webbing. Someone had shattered the light; there were shards and slivers of it everywhere, piercing her eyes, her brain, her nerves. Elsewhere, hidden behind the broken blare of the light, were people; she could hear them talking, talking, talking. She wanted to tell them about the light, warn them that the edges were sharp, but she couldn't seem to find a language that fit the shape of her mouth. She tried every language she had, but they were all too big or too small or too hard or too soft, and besides the inside of her mouth was bleeding, multiply punctured by tiny daggers of light, and even if she found the right language it would hurt unbearably to speak....
Inside the light, sharing the pain, were flashes of image, odor and sound. Her mother, sitting at the 'counts table, her hood folded back onto her shoulders; a whiff of mint; the glitter of dust against starless Deeps; a scream, cut off short by the sharp snap of breaking bone; the taste of strong, sweet tea; a line of equation; a hand on her hair; hot 'crete and cold metal—The sharp fragments of light flared and she screamed, or tried to; she twisted against the straps that held her, fingers fumbling the seals, and all at once, she was free, falling face-down onto the deck.
They were doing this to her. She caught the thought and pinned it against the shattered light. They were doing this to her.
Staggering, retching, she pushed herself acro
ss the floor until she ran into the wall, then used it to claw herself upright. She could only see bits and flashes of color around all the broken light in her eyes, so she put her shoulder against the wall and followed it.
* * *
"Cantra!" She was upright, just, listing hard against the wall, her breathing ragged. Her eyes were wide, pupils dilated, and whatever she was seeing, Jela hoped it wasn't him.
"Cantra?" He walked toward her, easy and light, face forcibly pleasant, hands out and showing empty.
From the tree came a sending, laced with urgency: The golden dragon, staggering in flight, landing clumsily in the crown of a monstrous tree. A branch rose, offering a seed-pod, which she greedily consumed. Jela shook the image away. "Not now," he breathed.
"Cantra!" she shouted suddenly, her body writhing, and it was Maelyn tay'Nordif's voice, hoarse with horror. "You swore—you swore not to call her!"
"Yes, I did swear," Jela agreed. He took a deep breath, deliberately calming, and another, knowing that most people would unconsciously mimic what he was doing, and calm themselves.
Not that Cantra yos'Phelium had ever been most people.
"I swore, for the length of the mission," he said, taking another step, not wanting to crowd her, but needing to be within catching distance when the agitation left her and she buckled. "Mission's accomplished, Cantra. You can stand down."
"You will murder me for your own gain!" Maelyn tay'Nordif shouted at him, and threw herself forward.
He caught her, but it was like trying to hold a wind-twist. She kicked, clawed and punched without any regard for defense, leaving herself open a dozen times for the blow he wouldn't strike.
A knee hit his stomach, hard enough to hurt, and a flying fist got him solid in the eye. He caught her wrist, spun her 'round, got a leg behind her knee, twisted, and took her with him to the deck. He broke her fall as best as he could, and tucked her tight against his chest, legs pinned between his thighs, one hand holding both wrists, the other cradling her forehead.
She twisted, shouting at him in a cargo-can load of languages, most of them unfamiliar, which, judging from those he did understand, was probably a good thing.
"Cantra, Cantra..." he murmured, though it was doubtful she could hear him with all the ruckus she was making. From the tree came the image once more, this time with more than a taste of urgency: The golden dragon, staggering. A safe, but risky landing in the tree. The branch, the pod, the thanks.
"Not now," Jela said again, just as she twisted hard in his arms and got a leg free.
He could have held her, but he would have had to break something to do it. Instead, he rolled, and she got in a couple good kicks before he had her solidly pinned, face against the deck.
Now what? he asked himself, as she struggled to be free. If she kept up at this rate, he thought worriedly, she'd do herself an injury.
"You cannot kill me," Cantra ranted. "I refuse to die. My family will intervene. A scholar Seated at Osabei! My mother—"
Something hit Jela's knee. He looked down and saw a seedpod. As he watched, it split into neat sections. For a third time, the tree sent the saga of the weary golden dragon, this time augmenting the image with blares of lightning and rocks the size of Dancer tumbling down the sides of sea cliffs.
Well, it was a better idea than any he'd had so far.
Carefully, he lifted one section and brought it to Cantra's lips, fully expecting to be bit for his trouble. She stilled, as if the pod's fragrance had reached her—he expected that the pod was fragrant, though, strangely, he couldn't smell it—then daintily ate the thing from between his fingers. He offered the rest in quick succession and she ate every one, after which she lay quiet until all at once her muscles released their tension and she slumped bonelessly to the deck.
Heart in his mouth, Jela turned her, found a pulse—strong and sweet—brushed the hair out of her eyes and gently peeled back a lid. From the tree, another sending: The golden dragon drowsing on her branch; her mate the black dragon at her side, rubbing his head against her and singing.
"What?" It wasn't that he didn't know any songs, but most were bawdy, or camp songs, or bits of soldier lore—and what use or need of them, when she was quiet now and on the mend...
Again, and no mistaking the impatience: The black dragon singing and cuddling the golden.
Jela looked down at his pilot, bonelessly asleep on the deck, then across to the tree.
"I don't understand."
For a moment nothing came through, and he thought the tree had given up on him. Then, slowly, deliberately, a picture began to form behind his eyes: A tea mug, that was all—perfectly ordinary, plain white, and completely empty. The image solidified until he felt he might reach inside his head and wrap his fingers around the handle.
"All right," he said, when nothing else manifested. "An empty tea mug."
A whiff of mint was his reward. Inside his head, icy cold water poured down, filling the mug, which altered, darkening from bright white to cream, to gold, shifting and stretching until it was a tiny, perfect golden dragon.
Jela shivered, heart caught in his throat, and heard her husky voice again, saw her hand outstretched—Got time for some pleasure, Pilot? I'm thinking it'll be my last in this lifetime...
"I don't know enough," he whispered, but all that got him was the black dragon and the gold again, her sheltering beneath the curve of his wings.
The co-pilot's first care is his pilot... And who else did she have, he thought, except himself?
"Well." He rose, picked her up in his arms and carried her to the co-pilot's chair, where he settled in and folded her long self onto his lap, her undamaged cheek against his shoulder. Reclining them slightly, he settled one arm around her waist and rested his chin against her hair.
"Your name," he said, as easy and calm as he could, refusing to think about what might be riding on his getting the story right... "Your name is Cantra yos'Phelium, heir to Garen. You're owner of the ship Spiral Dance, and the best pilot I've even seen or heard tell of in all my years of soldiering..."
Seventeen
Spiral Dance
CANTRA DRIFTED TOWARD wakefulness, the usual and ordinary sounds of her ship a comfort in her ears. Except, she thought, as sleep receded, she shouldn't be on Dancer, should she? Shouldn't she be on Landomist, getting the last of the documents doctored up and doing the pretty ceramic stitching that would remake Jela into a kobold?
Her throat tightened, and she shifted in her bunk, waking an astonishing chorus of aches and pains.
It went bad, she thought, which notched the concern into panic, as she scrambled to recall just how bad it had gone, and when, and what the date was. If she'd lost Jela...
She took a hard breath and forcibly shoved the panic aside, and tried to remember what had happened, to no avail. There was a gaping, tender hole in her memory, like a tooth fresh knocked out, but many times worse. Her throat tightened. Deeps, if she'd drunk herself or doped herself to the point of losing memory, it—it had been bad when Garen'd died. She could suppose it would be worse, when Jela—
She took another breath, and another, imposing calm by nothing more than brute force. Well, she thought; if she couldn't remember what went wrong, what could she remember?
Clear as clear, she remembered setting down at Landomist Yard and filing the proper with the Portmaster's office.
She remembered engaging the lodgings, paying the landlord a local half-year on account.
She remembered coming back to the ship and coaxing Jela into the space between the floor and the not-floor in the small cargo wagon, and going through the checkpoint. She particularly remembered how the guard had to handle every item, and twice go through the documentation she'd gimmicked to explain away the tree, before calling over somebody higher on the brain chain to go over it a third time and clear her through. And how she'd expected Jela to be some peeved by the time she'd got them all safe-so-to-speak at the lodgings and peeled back the floor to let him out
. Which he wasn't, not that he hadn't seemed grateful to be able to move about.
What else?
She remembered him trying to snoop Osabei Tower from wayaway and finally allowing as how the thing couldn't be done.
She remembered building docs and certs out of vapor and stardust.
She remembered sharing considerable pleasure with Jela and rising while he was still asleep.
She remembered trembling like a newbie before what had to be done, taking the tree's gift, and sinking down into the trance.
She remembered waking up in her cabin on Dancer, bruised, contused and about to be scared all over again.
Wait—no. She remembered Veralt, from noplace other than Tanjalyre Institute of fond memory, weaving a knife at the end of her nose and telling her how he'd murdered Garen...