by Gayle Greeno
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
PART ONE
PART TWO
PART THREE
PART FOUR
PART FIVE
EPILOGUE
JENRET SENT HIS MIND SEARCHING THE CITY....
He touched ... yes! A twinge of recognition, of consciousness, but the infantile mind overwhelmed him with its raw terrors—a crashing jolt that rattled his bones, the din thunderclapping on tiny, sensitive ears. An abrupt temperature shift, too, too hot! “What is fire? Mama scared?”
Jenret reeled, dizzy with the effort of reaching out mind-to-mind across such a vast distance. Unable to absorb the baby’s raw emotions and sensations, he could only grasp that some dire danger threatened Doyce, and the baby as well. Fire? By the Lady, no, not fire! He tried to tap into the voice again, pushed himself back and higher, not looking or caring what was behind him.
“Doyce!” he screamed. “Doyce! Hold on!” Flames surged at him, danced and crackled, fingers of fire licking him, an obscene come-hither. They shimmered and crawled all around him. No! It wasn’t real! Vivid streamers of orange and yellow circled, tasting his clothes, flashing and flaring at his hands, his face, singeing. Lungs winced at the superheated air. Higher, hotter—he dove to escape the messages slamming into his mind, as if his escape would liberate Doyce as well. And tumbled backward into thin air as Rawn shouted, too late, “No farther! Stop!”
Also by Gayle Greeno:
MIND SNARE
THE GHATTI’S TALE
FINDERS-SEEKERS (Book One)
MINDSPEAKER’S CALL (Book Two)
EXILES’ RETURN (Book Three)
GHATTEN’S GAMBIT
SUNDERLIES SEEKING (Book One)
THE FARTHEST SEEKING (Book Two)
Copyright © 1995 by Gayle Greeno.
All characters and events in this book are fictitious.
Any resemblance to persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.
First Printing, May 1995
DAW TRADEMARK REGISTERED
U.S. PAT. OFF. AND FOREIGN COUNTRIES
—MARCA REGISTRADA
HECHO EN U.S.A.
.S.A.
eISBN : 978-1-440-67303-0
http://us.penguingroup.com
It seems as if the last eighteen months have been fraught with tragedy for many of us with beloved companion animals. Those of you who’ve followed me through Book Two know that I lost Tulip shortly after her 20th birthday. Tulip’s successor, Angel, basked in two months’ worth of love before she reluctantly left me. The following list commemorates eleven cats (and one collie) who are also mourned and missed:
Alec, beloved of Betty and Diane D.-D.
Pumpkin, beloved of Helen, Dennis and Stephanie D.
Tristan and Gypsy, beloved of Lori D.
Butch, beloved of Mary Jane H.
Shadow, beloved of Susan H.
Chloe, beloved of Mary K.
Harlan, beloved of Ira S.
Dinah, beloved of Mary and Larry S.
Kisu, beloved of Anna-Liisa W.
Hopper, beloved of Liz W.
Sweetie and Kinko’s Mama, beloved of Sue Y.
And most especially to those nameless, lost ones who never received the loving hearts and homes they so richly deserved. Please support your local humane societies and remember that mature animals, not just puppies and kittens, need your love.
“So he who sat upon the cloud swung his sickle on the earth, and the earth was reaped.”
—Revelation 14: 16
PROLOGUE
She strode purposefully, with the gait of someone confident of her goal, though she lacked a clue, desperate to remember which street came next, whether the dogleg swung her back to city center or not. Walk any faster and the temptation to run would consume her, a mistake, a tip-off that she wasn’t who she appeared to be, didn’t belong, had no business here. No, a nice, steady stride served best, and her occasional reflection in a store window revealed only a forced but bland smile, a coherence of wrinkles drawing her brows together. The reflection also revealed the blurred shapes of her pursuers, one across the street, paralleling her, two behind about a half-block distant. Now only one behind her—where had the other one gone? Not likely he’d tired of his game, and his abrupt absence made her flesh crawl.
With a determined sigh that made her sound like any one of a hundred other women, tired at the end of a long day, hurrying home, she continued walking, didn’t alter her pace. What made her stand out, and her heart sank as she attracted yet another look beyond the normal glance-over of passersby, was her garb: very “country,” old-fashioned, the style not right, even for the old quarter of Gaernett where people dressed as they fancied rather than in current fashion. At home her clothing let her fade into the woodwork, un-memorable when she and Orem ventured into town for supplies. Here she was a moth amongst butterflies, her careful drabness singling her out as different, an “other,” an outsider.
Orem had been right, the boys were too young to accompany them to Gaernett, Collum only five, and Michael nine, though good, steady lads, obedient at the snap of one’s fingers. If not, they’d never have been allowed this much freedom. And besides, Collum had endured a miserable summer, the arch of his foot slashed on a hoe blade Michael had left wrong-sided. It had severed tendons, required a eumedico to stitch it properly, and then, almost healed, Collum’d snuck off to swim in the pond. The nearly healed gash went septic, and he’d gotten an ear infection as well, aches and afflictions at both ends.
To salve the pain and tears she’d promised both boys—and herself—a treat when the cooler weather came. A day trip to the capital, to Gaernett, visit the soaring Bethel, higher and grander than anything they’d ever seen, window-shop, the promise of a few gaudy penny toys chosen from the market stalls. Hadn’t she lulled Colly, burning with fever to match the long summer heat, spinning tales of her two previous furtive visits to Gaernett, poring over the tattered guide’s pen sketches of cosmopolitan marvels to behold? Who could blame him if thoughts of freedom, the luxury of being yourself—however circumspectly—in a bustling, anonymous place where no one questioned your true identity, made his fever dreams soar. Her own dreams did, too.
The man across the street paced her as if they were double-yoked, but the one remaining behind her seemed to have dropped back. The footsteps she heard weren’t his, the inexorably heavy tread that matched and mocked her own stride, drummed terror into her soul. And where, where was the third man? How could they know, even suspect? They wouldn’t, couldn’t snatch people off the street in broad daylight, could they? Her teeth clenched, an artificial, close-lipped smile pasted over them, death mask false, people registering the grimace, looking at her twice. She smoothed her expression.
Which way, which way now? Two long-ago visits to Gaernett, the wistful studying of the guidebook’s spider-tracked street map. She’d purposely lured them into the Old Quarter, the multiplicity of winding, confusing streets to her advantage, rather than the regimented, gridlike patterns of the newer city areas. Fool—of course they knew the city better than she, every uncertainty and hesitation playing into their hands! The Bethel’s spire rose in the distance, a beacon, but how to get there from here? She scanned the twisting streets and lanes in mounting panic, refused to press a hand over her heart to still it.
If not the Bethel, then where? She thought she recollected a tavern, an inn of some sort, had admired its three stories of wood, each fancifully colored, gingerbread gilding all around, gay as a fairy-tale dwelling. Myllard’s, wasn’t it called? Crested leather helmets, the creak of half-armor, a Guardian pair sauntering up ahead, eyes peeled for trouble. Reveal herself, plead for help? At least stop and ask directions?
Even that would draw attention, and she couldn’t break the inbred habits of a lifetime—never call attention to yourself. Yes, the Guardians were sworn to protect them as they would any other Canderisian citizen, but she couldn’t make herself believe. Reluctantly, she let them pass. Nothing could happen in broad daylight.
She crossed Gelder’s Alley where it intersected Halfling Lane, then turned right to cross Halfling. Crossing Halfling before the intersection would have set her on the same corner as her follower, two pieces on the same square of a game board. Apparently reading her resolve to make a move, he’d held back, restless, on the far comer, content not to apprehend her yet. Ordinary-looking, nothing to raise eyebrows, soberly dressed except for the silvery flash of a crescent pinned on each collar—a new fashion, perhaps. She took what seemed her first breath in ages, faint hope rising because—yes, Blessed Lady!—this was the way to Myllard’s. Not home free, but temporary safe harbor. Her face shed years, became as young as it truly was as she hurried along.
Who had tipped them off, whispered that they visited the capital? A way for their own townspeople to be shed of them, yet leave their own hands unsullied? But that bespoke planning, biding one’s time. No, more likely, incredibly bad luck. Colly, when that man had trod on his foot in the crowd? A heavy leather boot with a steel-rimmed heel stepping back, crunching the still-tender foot, not shifting, oblivious to the small boy’s screams, indeed, grinding his heel even harder. Orem had yelled a warning, shoving the man from behind to shift him off, all the while apologizing, temporizing, explaining. His face screwed in agony, Colly clutched his knee to yank his leg free, Michael crouching and holding his ankle, ready to help. “What?” the man had boomed, cupping his ear, rocking back on his heels. “What? Under foot?”
Before she could launch a mindslap Colly lashed out, mind writhing with pain, “Get off me, you deaf old fool!” The man leaped as if Colly had stuck him with a pin, took off as if all the hells’ demons pursued him, rather than one little boy holding his foot, crying with pain. Their followers, the shadowers, appeared shortly thereafter, and they’d shakily launched the plan they’d so often practiced, rehearsed against the possibility of discovery. Orem painstakingly wove the insinuation through the air, the niggling, tingling hint of seductiveness, her availability, her want, her need, and she’d drifted away from husband and sons, sashaying by the first man, letting her skirts brush enticingly across his thigh and groin. It sickened her, but her need to protect was stronger. Orem would fade clear with the boys, hide, take the quickest route out of the city. And she, she would play the mother bird with the supposedly broken wing, luring the predators from her young before bursting into triumphant flight—safety! At least that’s how the plan was supposed to work.
After she thought she’d detoured far enough, she’d tweaked their brains again, begging forgiveness to her ancestors for the intrusion, convincing them they’d misjudged her allure, her availability, a plain, harried woman, intent on her business. As she was. But still they followed. Mayhap it bespoke divine justice, retribution for her momentary lapse, for they continued following her as if scenting a bitch in heat.
Myllard’s Inn was ahead, she could see the top story, the sky-blue one, the sea foam green roof tiles. They wouldn’t dare drag her out of a public place, nor reveal what she was in public, not with the Monitor’s sanctions to protect her kind. Faster, faster, and she finally let herself break into a run, never saw the hand snaking out of the gloomy alley to snag her wrist, another hand clamping over her mouth. No, not rape—but worse, their minds promised that. She let her mind scream as loudly as she could, uncaring, concerned only that Orem learn the grim reality. No sense in searching for her, mounting a rescue. Then the dagger slipped up under her rib cage and penetrated her heart. And Canderis counted one less Resonant amongst its citizenry as Leah Fahlgren died.
PART ONE
With a sigh and a squirm Doyce Marbon dragged another ancient text to the small space she’d precariously cleared at the desk’s center, debated what would happen when she opened the book. The leather was so worn, so stiff, ready to crack and flake at the slightest touch, but, despite herself, she caressed it in honor of what it recorded about bygone times, long-ago days.
This one was small, its covers warped and bulging, and the leather wasn’t the worst of it: papermaking back in those early days had been primitive at best; indeed, a wonder that someone had managed it at all. As if in agreement with her thoughts, a corner snapped from one page, a few fading letters staring up at her before her prodding fingers almost disintegrated it. She slid another paper under it, holding her breath, and slipped the whole thing into a glassine envelope. Another fragment from the past, salvaged. Where would it fit?
“I’ve heard about keeping the past at arm’s length,” she muttered, “but this is ridiculous!” and held the book outstretched. Hazel eyes squinted, unable to focus at that distance. Mayhap if she slid under the table a bit more? Hunching her way down the cushioned bench, she squeezed her mounded belly beneath the table, bent her elbows, and drew the book closer. Not that pregnant, she consoled herself, simply that she was so slight her condition had showed almost immediately. She hadn’t blossomed, she’d burgeoned. Better, much better, except for the pain in her back.
With an exasperated growl, she elbowed herself upright, shut the book with a gentle thump. Blast Swan Maclough for demanding she write a history of the Seekers Veritas to commemorate their two hundredth anniversary next year! Much as she might be personally enamored of the past, what she truly craved was reassurance about the present—and the future. A tattoo of tiny feet and fists made her belly vibrate, and tears began to flood her eyes. Hormones, bloody hormones, just what she needed! Remaining rational and collected these days could be a losing battle. A brisk wipe with her sleeve conquered her tears, but not her fears.
There were more important things to do than research and writing—what with Canderis still astir over the discovery of Gleaners, Resonants, in their midst! Not to mention their unexpected rapprochement with their standoffish neighbor Marchmont after so many years, only to discover that Resonants there were an integral part of society. It should have helped, but it didn’t, simply made Marchmont suspect in a different way from the past.
People were ill at ease, their ordered world turned upside down by the discovery that Resonants, people with the ability to read minds—perhaps even steal them—had secretly lived beside them in apparent harmony for many years. Except now that any and every problem, past and present—from unexpected illness to bad business deals and marital incompatibility—could be blamed on something, someone, a whole misunderstood group to serve as scapegoats. What happened when the familiar turned unfamiliar? Especially when the “unfamiliar” continued to appear familiar—no way to tell, be sure.
And she—she should be out riding circuit, reassuring people, comforting them, showing them that change didn’t mean change for the worse, but could mean change for the better. After all, wasn’t the father of her child, Jenret Wycherley, both a Seeker and now a Resonant? So what if she were pregnant—she could still ride, or at worst, travel by wagon, with her Bondmate Khar’pern at her side. But instead, here she sat imprisoned in the library, jotting notes, striving to form the Seekers’ history into a coherent whole. Relegated to the stacks because she’d taken her duty too seriously, nursing the Seeker General with every bit of her long-ago training as a eumedico and—she snuffled wetly, tried to be honest—hovering, overhearing too much about the turmoils, putting the worst possible cast on a deteriorating situation. Now Jenret was absent yet again, training at the new Resonant school set up at the Research Hospice in the Tetonords, not here to reassure her, share information with her, and even her Bondmate Khar had temporarily deserted her for the sunny paving stones of the sunken plaza outside Headquarters.
A wave of self-pity engulfed her again, alone, forsaken, bereft, and then she had to laugh. Alone? Hardly. And an emphatic kick reminded her that for better or wor
se, she was pregnant, a promise toward the future, however unclear it might seem. So enjoy what she had while she had it, and let tomorrow take care of itself. Time enough to do her part; once she knew what it was.
A discreet scratching at the door distracted her and she shoved the table, gained room to maneuver her bulk clear. Grumbling at her ungainliness, she opened the door to find Per’la there, long, fluffy hair the color of butter cream, peridot eyes staring up at her. But saddest of all, and she forced herself not to let her eyes stray, betray her, was the ghatta’s lack of a tail, the nipped stub a forlorn reminder of the long, plumed glory once hers. Gone, gone along with Parse’s leg, and so many other things and friends lost as well. The war had not been kind. And in a land unused to war, its shock and pain lingered longer, like a sleeper awakening only to discover the nightmare was reality.
Per‘la trotted in, tail stub flicking as Doyce closed the door, old habits about the fear of pinching dying hard. “Well, love?” she asked aloud. “How goes it?” The ghatta sprang to the desktop, sat as if to dangle her tail over the edge, then turned and licked vigorously at the stub. And despite herself, Doyce mourned, “Oh, Per’la!” at the sad reminder, the absence, the loss.
“Will you stop being so polite.” She buried fingers in the soft, fluffy ruff, let her thumbs scratch just beneath the ringed ears, the left with its hoop, the right with the ball. “Mindwalk if ye will,” Doyce offered in silent mindspeech. “I thought you too dear a friend to need an invitation, ” she continued, consoling with her touch. Per’la twisted so her chin received the coveted scratching as well.