Exile's Return

by Gayle Greeno

  “Not even a hint?” Doyce had countered, frustrated. “No. If anything, we suspected a person with Seeker potential. After all, there are more of you than there are of us, so some of you are always wasted, destined to go through life without Bonds.”

  The thought took her aback. “At least they don’t know what they’ve missed. ”

  Although Maize couldn’t hear them, she acted faintly wistful, as if it had occurred to her as well. But then, she knew what a Bond was like, and had experienced the emptiness without it far too soon.

  Doyce sighed as Claire poured more cider into the mug and passed along to serve others. A relief, she didn’t really want to talk now, didn’t even want to think about the thousand and one things they could discuss about motherhood, pregnancy, the joys and terrors of infant-raising.

  “Infantry?” Khar inquired from under the bench.

  She wasn’t in the mood for the joke, not with the somber thoughts that crowded her mind. “How many years, Khar? How many years can hate persist? Senseless, vicious hatred of innocents? No wonder they’ve kept themselves well hidden. But what makes it suddenly fester like this?” Equally tired, the ghatta dragged herself onto the bench, rested her chin on the edge of the table, hazel eyes meeting amber ones. “How many years can hate go on?” she repeated more vehemently.

  “Eight times eight times eight. Octad times octad times octad or more. You brought it with you when you came to this world, prideful at being a citizen of a specific country, a member of a spedal, group. Factions meant more than the whole to you. Hatred, the fear that the tirst Spacer telepaths were responsible for the Plumbs, drove Venable Constant and the Resonants to escape to Marchmont, not just his desire for kingship. Or animosity between technicians and artists, like Crolius and Magnus. And now mistrust of Marchmont, of Resonants, rears its ugly head again, even if it’s dimly remembered, like fairy tales of old.”

  Khar’s lecture was hardly encouraging. Far from it. “Does it ever stop, ever end?”

  “Everyone needs someone less ‘worthy’ to project their anxieties and fears on, and the more similar people are to each other, the easier it is to fixate on one small peculiarity, one tiny difference.”

  One tiny difference-the ability to read minds. She pushed the bench back hard, nearly overturning it, the scrape attracting everyone’s attention as she rose. “Khar, I want to go home!”

  “Where’s home?”

  A fair question; what was the answer? Her old spartan room at Headquarters? The house she now shared with Jenret when he was here-and where was he, by the Lady, why hadn’t he gotten in touch with her? The house she’d once shared with Varon and Briony and Vesey, burned as well? A shudder wriggled under her skin. Strange, once she’d dashed into the thick of things last night she’d locked her terror of Vesey’s final pyre in a far compartment of her mind, refused to let it battle free. A good sign or not?

  Still pondering, she crossed the taproom. Was home the little village near Ruysdael where she’d been born, where her mother and sister still lived? This was how Matthias Vandersma and Kharm must have felt during those long years of wandering. Well, she and Khar couldn’t hold a candle to that first great Bond-pair. Downright presumptuous, vainglorious to measure herself against the founder of the Seekers Veritas.

  Khar blocked the doorway. “You’re just broody, looking for a place to nest. It’ll pass,” she comforted.

  “Don’t I have a place here in Gaernett?” Mayhap Khar had the right of it, mayhap she was just broody, hormones surging, searching for security, feeling utterly abandoned. A shamed downward glance thrust her into the present: she wore a clean nightshift and robe of Fala’s, nothing more. “Were you going to let me go out like this?” she sputtered. Out loud, apparently, because Myllard turned in her direction.

  “Can if you want-if you dare!” the ghatta taunted. And just to have the last say, she stalked out the door, fuzzy knit slippers on her feet. Thank the Lady it was early morning still, and few around to view her like this. The baby kicked and the robe billowed. “Well, come on. I’ll go get changed and head for the library. ” It was the best interim home she knew..

  PART THREE

  Jenret cursed, cursed himself and the darkness with impressive fluent dignity. Alone in the forest in the middle of the night following a half-witted scheme. Addawanna had rejected his proposal outright, laughing at him. Sarrett, Yulyn, and Towbin had indignantly refused to leave the comfort of the campfire; Faertom had merely shrugged, as withdrawn as usual. The swathing darkness of the woods obscured the Lady moon and her Disciples, made them equally distant and uncaring. Well, the others’d had the right of it. Fool’s errand. But today marked the conclusion of the two oct period of waiting he’d agreed on with the Resonants. Sixteen days, and he’d heard nothing more from the Monitor.

  When Faertom had returned with the Monitor’s response, Jenret’s heart had pounded with anticipation at the thick packet—but the only thing of substance had been the letter’s size. No new proposals or plans, simply a reiteration of every pertinent law and regulation, how it was being enforced, how the population was being reminded of each applicable law and the penalities involved for breaking it. Van Beieven had closed by promising to send word if the High Conciliators did anything more. Not enough, not nearly—a sop to the Monitor’s conscience. Jenret felt as if a pledge had been broken, but had he had any right to make it to begin with?

  “Scare dem more, you loomin in dark at dem. Not very comfort-makin if you wan gain der confidence. Come morning, hot head will cool,” Addawanna had urged. Yet he refused to fault his reasoning-small, secluded campfires would stand out in the dark, and that was why he’d hiked upward, scanning the valleys and beyond. Nothing, not a fire beyond their own beckoned. Did it mean no Resonants hid out there, or that they’d cold-camped, taking no chances on being spotted?

  Still, being out here with Rawn let him balm his battered ego in private, afforded him another opportunity to mindreach Doyce. Each time he’d tried, he’d fallen back, beaten, bruised, as if he’d collided with a glass wall. So close tonight, he could almost see Doyce on the other side, wrapped in his old bathrobe, her palpable longing for him, her suspicion that yet again he’d broken his trust. But her mind remained shuttered. Whether she did it consciously, or whether it reflected his imperfect skill, he couldn’t judge. He should have asked Yulyn.

  “It’s not really you and it’s not really her,” Rawn placated. “Oil and water don’t mix, and that’s what you’re trying to do.”

  Cold comfort at best. He sat an a fallen log, propped head in hands. “I wonder, I wonder, ” he mused, losing himself in the times he’d placed his hand on Doyce’s belly, felt the baby stir at the sound of his voice, his laughter, his songs. Could he somehow reach the unborn child, the child both he and Doyce shared, a part of them both? Not alarm it, but simply send reassuring thoughts for the child to transmit to Doyce. “Do you think so?” he asked Rawn, sure the ghatt would deduce what he meant.

  “It’s possible, I suppose,” Rawn’s tail switched uneasily. “But be careful, very cautious. When do babies develop their own mental signatures? Will it understand you? The last thing you want is to pitch Doyce into early labor if you overexcite it, overstirnulate it.”

  It stopped him cold. But he strove to think it through, measuring what was best for everyone, but most of all for the unborn child. He suspected a son but wasn’t sure.

  “Girl children are nice, too.”

  A warning? A hint to prepare himself for a daughter? Well, he’d settle for either, a healthy, laughing child. His intense blue eyes with Doyce’s brown hair, red highlights sparkling in the sun? His dark hair, her hazel eyes, sometimes tender, often tough, framed by his long, curved lashes. At last he ventured, “I think the child already knows me, knows my voice. Lady knows, I’ve crooned at it out loud and in my heart. If it were a stranger, an unborn stranger you might be right. ” He stood, backing up the incline until he balanced practically atop the cliff sca
rp, wanting the world to hear his mindshout that he worshiped Doyce, adored his unborn child, and that all was well with him.

  He concentrated, sweat beading his brow, envisioning the bedchamber where Doyce would be sleeping. Touched a gaping emptiness, almost rocked off his feet by the enormity of it, then relaxed as he confirmed the emptiness signified her absence, not death. Overreacting without reason, surely, but where could she be at this time of night? Jenret sent his mind searching the city, heard Rawn instruct, “Spiral from the center, the bedroom, work outward. Less chance to miss them.” And obeyed. It seemed the wise thing to do.

  Touched ... yes! A twinge of recognition, of consciousness, and he soothed it, crooned to it, 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! The oxygen coursing through the placenta thinner than it liked. “Too bright, too bright, even in here!” Oh, ouch, jouncing!” ”Ow, toe in eye! Stop! ”Hold still, I’ll shift!”.“What is fire? Mama scared?”

  He reeled, dizzy with effort, rising fear strangling him, clawing at his throat, unable to absorb the raw emotions and sensations, the voice—voices?—he heard, but grasping that some dire danger threatened Doyce. The baby as well. Fire? By the Lady, no, not fire! Not like Vesey’s demise! 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! He would not—he viewed it in his mind’s eye, 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!”

  A backward somersault, and he was rolling, bouncing and crashing like a string-slashed puppet down the steep cut of the ravine toward the stream far below. Water, at least, would quench.

  The world reared up to meet him, drove the breath from his lungs, the sense from his head, as a tree stump slammed his midsection. For an eternity of moments he hung, paralyzed. His eyes shifted marginally, surveying the weathered bark up close, unable to move any other part of him, unable to blink, unable to make even his lungs work. Lungs were supposed to work whether you were conscious of them or not, weren’t they? Why couldn’t he—why couldn’t they—draw a breath? Why? Why couldn’t he twitch even a finger? What he could do was listen, hear while he hung limply defenseless the sound of dead roots ripping free, giving way, readying the stump for the final slide into oblivion. His body hovered halfway there, his mind drifting between consciousness and oblivion, blackness washing across his vision as his whole system craved oxygen.

  Just as he thought he’d black out, die, for all he knew, he managed to crack his jaws open, draw a shuddering deep breath. Slowly, the infinite delight of sensation returned, fingers flexed, clenched at his command. That relief, however, couldn’t nullify the sounds of the roots tearing free from their precarious rocky hold.

  Rawn slipped and slithered to his side, clawing to stop his momentum. “Phew! Ouch! Down’s always faster than up.” A black paw tapped Jenret’s thigh, claws pricking to restrain any further movement. “Break anything?”

  Hard to tell in this splayed, rag-doll position, spitted by a stump canting toward the cliff face, but he thought not. “No, but infinitely bruised. Like an overripe fruit that’s been used for kick ball.

  “Well, you took a hit to the solar plexus. Leaves you rigid as a plank. The stump saved you from falling all the way, though.”

  “How are we going to get out of here?” Did he dare sit up, test things for himself? No, not yet. Could he move? Most important, where to move? Nothing to do but continue hanging there, draped over the tree stump, arms and legs straddling it, hair tangling with the half-exposed roots. Beyond that, empty air.

  “Good question. Wish I had an answer.” The ghatt shifted sideways on the narrow outcropping. “If you want to dismount, scrunch backward. Don’t think about sitting up until you do.”

  He slithered backward, the stump complaining under his weight, roots rearing higher as he untangled himself. “Sit back now, you can’t go any farther.” He did, leaned against the cliff wall, the stump still between his legs, feet dangling over thin air. A close escape. And then the cause of his predicament swamped his senses, left him quivering with consternation. His rising panic at hearing the terror in the baby voice ... voices? The crystallizing knowledge that Doyce and their unborn child were in jeopardy, the flames so perilously close, a transmittal of terror so real he’d been engulfed by it, unable to separate his own truth from their reality. Now that all contact had fled, he couldn’t sense what was happening to them, whether their terror increased or diminished. He bit his lip until the pain brought him back to himself; surely he’d feel a corresponding but far worse pain if they’d perished? Wouldn’t he? He trembled, drew Rawn into his lap.

  “Rawn, promise me something.” He hugged the ghatt fiercely, rumpling the velvet ears, fingering the earrings. “Promise me! ”

  “What?” A delicate snuffling around his ear, the nose shifting to his eyelids, blotting the tears. “What, my Bondmate? Speak.”

  Never, ever had he borne a sorrow so oppressive, so all-encompassing, devouring his heart. Not that he feared death, had never feared it before, but if he died now, Doyce would surely believe he’d failed her again, didn’t love her enough, didn’t love their child. Loved himself and his dream for the Resonants more. “If... if, ” he stammered, “a ... any ... thing happens to me, if I die, don’t journey with me. Return to Doyce, make sure she’s all right, that the child is all right. Watch over them, guard them for me if I can’t be there.”

  Dipping his head under Jenret’s chin, the ghatt butted him, furiously rubbing. A tall order, and one he momentarily didn’t wish to obey. Life without Jenret was death. Without a doubt, Saam had balked as well when assigned the same untenable task by his now-dead Bondmate Oriel. The selfsame task: protecting Doyce from harm. Far better to die with one’s Bond—as Rolf and Chak had, Rolf taking that final step over the cliff, cradling the dead Chak in his arms. Together, still together wherever they dwelt now. His ears swiveled, testing the faint noises at the clifftop, judged them promising. “Well, I can’t honor your request.”

  A tensing, chest and stomach muscles rigid beneath him, arms gripping like iron bands, as if they’d strangle him for his refusal. “Oh, yes? And why might that be?” the beloved voice hissed hot, naked anger in his ear.

  “You refused to let yourself or Parse die lost, abandoned in Sidonie’s underground passages, and you have the strength and the courage not to die now.”

  “Well, when this stump breaks loose, it’ll take-most of the ledge with it. I don’t have much choice!”

  Rawn radiated smugness. “Don’t fuss any more than you have to. Rescue’s coming from above.”

  The tail of a rope snaked down the rockface, too far away to catch. Jenret couldn’t see it, could only hear its slithering passage. “Towbin and the others?” Hope surged, drove the fear from his body. He would live! Rush back to Gaernett, to Doyce’s side, never abandon her or the baby again, protect them both against everything, including his own fickleness ! Towbin and Faertom could pull him up from here without breaking into a sweat, especially with Sarrett, Yulyn, and Addawanna to help! Easy as jerking a fish out of a stream, especially a fish that wanted to be caught! And he wanted to be caught and hauled to safety so badly.

  “No, not exactly,” Rawn allowed. “You were out searching for Resonants, you know. Strange how they seem to find you without any trouble.”

  The sound of creaking rope, scraping noises, rock splinters breaking free and
crashing past his head, grunts of exertion. “But I didn’t call for help. Didn’t have time. Wouldn’t have known whom to contact other than Yulyn or Faertom,

  how to reach them without a signature.” A body hovered above and to his right when he tossed his head straight back, strained to see. Or rather, a dark shape, more a lump really, against the lighter rockface, spidering toward him.

  “I think your distress shouted unconsciously, rallied anyone nearby. Anyone with the mind to hear.”

  “Then Yulyn and Faertom should have heard. ” That made sense. “They should be coming, too, ” he insisted.

  “If you wouldn’t hold me so tightly, I could breathe better,” Rawn mentioned in passing, and at last the iron grip eased. “No doubt they are, but they have farther to come, don’t know exactly where you are. So other company’s arriving first.”

  He considered shouting, hailing the descending figure, but feared a sharp sound might dislodge additional rocks and stones as well as the man. The Thomases had refused to mindspeak him—would this man? Flaunt it in his face that he hadn’t proven his worth? He reached deep inside for all the neutral goodwill, gratitude he could muster, nothing to frighten or startle the dimly visible man. “ ’Ware the outcropping. It’s sharp enough to saw the rope.” He should know, had slashed himself against it on the way down.

  “Right. Saw it. Now stow it. Enough to concentrate on without... magpie... chattering. ” The figure sideslipped, gained toe-purchase on a slender fault line and eased sideways, swinging his rope to the right. He continued down, wall-walking, letting the rope bear his weight. “How much ... room ... beside you?”

  Jenret groped the dimensions of his impromptu perch. Its greatest depth was where he sat, with the tree trunk projecting inward like a thorn in flesh. To his right, the man’s right, he judged it ran about a meter long. The greatest problem was that the farther away it ran, the more it tapered, until he could touch only a sliver of a narrow lip. “You’re too far to your left. You won’t be able to reach the ledge from there. It’s mayhap a meter long, but at the far edge it’s no more than two fingers deep. ”