by Julie Ishaya
"Hello, handsome," she said breathily.
"Jenesaazi." He loved to say her name. It purred from his lips, and before saying anything else, they embraced. He kissed her hard, crushed her to him.
She drew back, and he watched her expression as she admired his face. Although he showed little age beyond thirty-five, like her, he was well into his forties. As with all Nexians, he had matured rapidly from infancy to manhood, clearing the first stage of growth after which the process slowed down. This had no bearing on his attraction to Jenesaazi, though she began to gently show her age. Her amber eyes dimmed with mischief as she traced the angles of his cheekbones, the harsh and soft blackness of his brows and lashes. These traits he had passed on to their son, along with the same blue eyes that were clearly Nexian with their long, slit pupils. She kissed his chin and gave a soft laugh while reaching up to brush a long lock from his forehead.
"You're finally wearing the crown mane," she said, while he simply stared at her. Tiny lines had formed around her eyes, but she was still the beauty he had spent much of his childhood chasing around the manse after her family agreed to foster him. Then she asked the question that he least wanted to answer: "Have you seen Kieriell yet?"
"No." He stroked her hair.
"Will you be staying a while with us?"
"Jenny, I. . . I can't stay. I'm only here on business. I'm sorry."
Her brow creased with disappointment as she shook her head. "No, I understand. I accepted this long ago, remember?"
So strong, he thought. Always so strong. "I received a transmission from the school's head maven that I should come immediately," he explained. "I returned the transmission and made arrangements."
"Then why did you stop here first?"
He moved closer again and wrapped his arms around her waist. "Because—"
"Because you're afraid of facing him after so long away," she finished.
"Very good." He laughed nervously. She wasn't disciplined in psionics, but she could read him as if with sharpest honed telepathy. "How is he?"
"He's doing well. I see him every few days, and he's advanced in the school's disciplines, but he doesn't tell me much, doesn't talk about how he feels." She looked away.
"What?" He sensed her organizing her thoughts, choosing her words carefully.
"He doesn't want to talk about you anymore, Adam. For a year after you left, he would discuss your missives, then he just quit."
"I suspected that." He sighed. "I know my messages are reaching him."
"Well, they are only one-way. I think he needs full interaction with you. I, on the other hand, am practiced at this, remember?" Bitter amusement touched her eyes.
He nodded and released her, walked toward the windows where he could look out upon the silvered vertices of the city, the sand-white domes. To the far horizon of ocean beyond the harbor, the three moons were still visible over the south, each in a different phase congruent with its position in the sky. From this distance, he could almost make out the upward swell of the tide waters and a fourth moon peaking just over the line between sea and sky, and then the past was consuming him again, provoked by the landscape.
Valtaer was a world of little consistency. The encircling nine moons brought about strong oceanic disturbances in the southern hemisphere, while most of the land was located in the northern hemisphere and divided into two continents, the greater of which was barren ice land. The southernmost continent, where Nall rested, held the fringes of civilization, though much of that land lay open to desert or muggy swamps.
At one time exiled from Nex, Adam had chosen to travel Valtaer. He'd seen both continents, known their splendors and horrors. When years ago he grew weary of adventuring, he finally returned to Nall and asked Jenesaazi to marry him. He had not expected to be pardoned and summoned back to Nex, called to embrace his bloodlines and the heritage he'd attempted to deny. Then he'd spent more years away from Nall, visiting as often as possible, always taking the greatest comfort in Jenesaazi's arms.
It wasn't until she was pregnant that he learned Valtaerian women seldom survived childbirth when the father was of Nexian descent. His own mother had not, and he knew that Kieriell would eventually learn about this matter too. He paced endlessly the night Kieriell was born, nearly tore down the walls out of worry-rage, only to be told later that mother and baby were fine. After that, he tried to live between worlds, but it became too difficult. He fled, took refuge in his duties as crown prince and ambassador to Hella.
"I'm back where I was before," he whispered. He almost recoiled when he felt Jenesaazi's hand rub his back.
She hugged him around the waist and laid her cheek against his shoulder. "Just remember, he's seventeen now. He's not a child anymore. And he knows everything." She didn't bother with subtle sarcasm.
"Everything?" he said with false amazement and turned to face her.
"Absolutely." She looked mischievous again. "You know, we could go make up for some of that lost time together."
"I'm not against putting that on the agenda." He kissed her again. "Although, you might have to show me around. I'm not sure I remember where the bedroom is."
Kieriell stood at the window of the head maven's office and stared down into the school's outer ward. While the other mavens kept their quarters on the north wall, Ahrden's office faced the front of the school's compound where the front gate led into the outer ward and the vehicle port. Since the incident in the quadrangle he had bathed and changed into a royal blue tunic with the golden phoenix of the school's crest mounted on the breast. Unable to eat, he had left the dining hall to find himself biding his time before class in Ahrden's study. He organized the maven's desk and book shelves and swept the floor. Anything to keep his mind off Jarren, off Thalassa, off the changes that randomly claimed his body at the least little upset.
"Your aura dims."
Kieriell turned from the window when the old maven strode into the room, the door hissing closed behind him. "I'm sorry." Kieriell rested back against the sill and crossed his arms.
"I've noticed that you are on a roll with apologies lately."
Kieriell shrugged. "Sorry."
"This new ability of yours is ruled by a whole other discipline that you have yet to grasp."
"It's just teleportation."
"It's more than that, boy, and you've already discovered the problems that can arise with its misuse."
"I was just practicing," Kieriell argued. "I moved from my room to Jarren's door."
"And he didn't hear you coming, and he and Taire continued to talk about you."
"So?"
"I'm saying that had they been forewarned by your approaching footsteps, they might have been quiet, your ego would remain intact, and there would still be peace between you and Jarren."
"So I should forget the whole thing?"
"Yes." Ahrden lowered his voice. "And you should use better discretion the next time you try to take short cuts."
Pacing slowly, Kieriell gave a soft but miserable moan of resignation. The thing was that given his state of mind lately he'd found it far too easy to overreact to everything. "You're right. You're absolutely right." He threw his hands out and slapped them down by his sides.
"In the future, you will be able to do far more than manifest a shadow blade. You are Nexian. You will develop other psionics, and when you do, you will know what other people are thinking about you. With that in mind, you would do well to learn some degree of apathy, especially toward your own vain notions of reputation."
The air in the room grew thick to Kieriell. He repeated the maven's last words in his head and swallowed hard.
Ahrden moved behind the huge desk, which was accented with ornate scroll work curling across its front panel, and sat down. "I have news." He leaned back in the massive winged chair, a sober glower deepening the lines around his eyes. Kieriell shifted his weight from one leg to the other and tucked his hands behind his back. "As I said before," Ahrden proceeded, "your ability to telep
ort requires a discipline that goes beyond this school's teachings. That is the realm of your Nexian heritage. I have had several missives with your father on Nex regarding these matters. He will arrive soon."
"What? No!" Kieriell replied a little too quickly. "I don't want to see him."
"Is that really how you feel?"
Kieriell looked away, his jaw set, felt the anger-frustration-abandonment-grief overcome him in a wave of heat. It began in his head and made a column down into his abdomen. No, he didn't want to see his father. He'd adjusted over the last three years to having no father around, and that suited him just fine.
"Look at me, Kieriell."
Numb and angry, he slowly angled his face back toward the maven and raised his gaze to make eye contact, and he knew from Arhden's subtle wince that his eyes were expressing the shift, and it couldn't be a pleasant thing to look at.
Ahrden gave a gentle headshake. "Kieriell, there's nothing more I can teach you. I can lecture you about self-control and vanity from dusk until dawn, but you are Nexian. You have far more to learn than we teach here." He stood and held out one hand in a fist with the palm turned down. Then he opened it and turned the palm up, a sign that represented release. "Do you see?"
"You can't just let me go," the youth objected.
"You must go, Kieriell. It is time for you to advance to a new level."
"But—" He was interrupted by a low droning sound down in the outer ward. The front gate was opening to allow vehicle entry.
"That would be your father arriving."
Kieriell went to the window. The vehicle port to the far front of the ward lit up against the afternoon sun. A small sleek cruiser hovered through the gate, and Kieriell recognized it immediately as his family's private transport. He watched it land and lock down on the port before the passenger door on the side cracked open and raised upward. From the darkness in the compartment, a familiar yet also very different figure emerged.
"Before you go and say or do something brash, I wish to speak with him in private," Ahrden said. He turned for the door.
Kieriell watched the maven's back disappear through the portal before he returned his attention to the ward below. Then when he lifted his eyes and looked more directly at the glass pane, he saw his reflection, and there were his own eyes glaring back at him in tones of serpentine redness and spokes of yellow, slit pupils narrowed in the predatory glare of a Nexian prince.
3
Adam stood in the soft light of the waiting room and examined an ancient and preserved painting of Argus Ariahm, the founder of the school. The young face of Ariahm stared tranquilly out from a field of shadow that contoured around his sharp features and blended with his dark hair.
Adam only knew fragments about his ancestor. Ariahm was Nexian, born in the line of Astar'Æth, Lord of the Hellan order. Being the youngest of his siblings and never expected to assume the mantel, he had ventured to Valtaer where he went native and then shared a belief that anyone could develop psionics. Valtaerian political factions were still at odds with Nexian authority at the time. For the most part his early teachings went ignored for several generations, but his Valtaerian followers persisted, and passed along the discipline of psionic development among other native groups until an entire order was achieved. The school was erected some two thousand years later and remained strong. It bred scholar-warriors who became great teachers, politicians, scientists, and military tacticians. Until Kieriell was ready for Nex, Adam and Jenesaazi had decided together that he would be better off at the Ariahm school.
Footsteps in the hall prompted Adam to turn as Maven Ahrden entered the room, his robes swishing over the cool tiles. Adam took a step forward as the Maven gave him a respectful bow. "Maven," Adam said.
Ahrden smiled. "I'm pleased that you answered my missive so quickly."
"Where my son is concerned I cannot answer quickly enough." Adam made an apologetic gesture with his hands. "My duties have too long shadowed my family."
"But such duties require so much attention," the Maven said understandingly.
"How is he?"
Ahrden raised one graying brow and looked amused. Then carefully he reached out and touched Adam's mind with his own. (The boy is growing,) he replied telepathically. (His heritage has begun to emerge; his shifting time is at hand, like a second puberty. He needs the guidance of his father now.)
Adam nodded. "I had guessed that was why you called me here." He was somewhat perplexed why the Maven chose to use telepathy rather than speak aloud. "I suppose the usual signs and symptoms are there," he added with a tone of amusement. The manifestation of the shift in a young Nexian meant a host of brattish and defensive behavior, emotional outbursts and odd bouts of sexual arousal, shifting uncontrollably and anger. So much anger. Adam had been there, and when he looked back, he was by no means proud of many of his actions.
"You could not have guessed enough, my lord." Ahrden moved even closer, and Adam sensed him probing the link to assure that Adam already maintained a shadow shield, then he returned to silent communication. (His powers go beyond shifting and average psionics. The boy can teleport. He is a potential transcendant.)
Adam stared. (Are you serious?)
(Absolutely.)
Adam withdrew his mind and shelled his emotions. A tremor passed through him. He turned to pace a few feet, his back toward the Maven as he looked up at the portrait of Ariham. Cool blue eyes stared back at him. The artist's depiction was so detailed as to imply that the eyes were gateways. Adam felt that he could reach into the blackness beyond the pupils and find relief there. But if what Ahrden said was true, then Kieriell was endangered, and there was no relief to be found. (When did this ability manifest?) His inner voice rose with worry. He turned back to face the Maven.
(Ten days, perhaps longer. I don't know how long he knew about it before he shared it with me. I witnessed only one demonstration before I cautioned him, but he has already used it to no good end.)
Adam's gaze drifted in thought. "It's. . . It's hard to believe." He began to pace slowly, his hands making gestures up and down as if to grasp the reality of it. (He actually carries the gridcode on the surface of his genes. How far can he go with this power? I assume that he is only on the level of horizontal teleportation.)
Ahrden nodded. (Exactly. He hasn't reached dimensional transcendence yet.)
(Good. This information must not become known until Kieriell has had more training.)
(Yes,) Ahrden's mind whispered. (That was my suspicion, but I haven't discussed it with him. I thought you should know before this matter created a terrible problem. Your main concern now is the Nexian adversarial code.)
Adam nodded to this though his thoughts raced away with him. Stopping to take a breath, he nearly stumbled over what he had to say next. It was inevitable. "He has to come back to Nex with me."
Kieriell sat on the floor of his room with his legs crossed and concentrated on the shadow blade extending out from his hand. The psionic field had been appropriately named not only because it resembled a shadow extending out from the hand of the individual projecting it, but it was believed to stem from that part of the psyche where the darkest convictions dwelt. To control it separate from those convictions was part of the goal of the discipline. So Kieriell tested himself. With a deep inhale of breath, he willed the shadow out into the crescent moon pattern that he favored for combat purposes. On the exhale he shaped it into a standard sword. The dim, transparent field rippled in the air like heat waves, its edges molecule-thin and sharp. On the next breath, he drew the sword out into a staff, using both hands to guide the energy. Then, bringing his hands together, he shaped the field into a shield.
But his thoughts drifted back to his father downstairs speaking with the Maven, and he envisioned himself taking the shadow and dashing it upon every piece of furniture in the room. What were they saying about him? Was the good maven telling his father about his behavior in the quad? Cheeks burning, he felt his fingernails start to leng
then.
"Damn it!" Kieriell let the blade slip away into nothing and slouched. With stinging eyes, he looked at the floor and his meditation mat. He couldn't calm himself enough to shift back. The talons had grown out full length and would not fall off this time, fueled as they were by the shift's chemical processes. In the mirror over his bureau, he saw his eyes. They remained serpentine in color. He never let the other students see him like this if he could help it, but they knew something was going on. He'd behaved too suspiciously in the past few weeks, excused himself and slipped away from too many conversations, and he'd occasionally avoided answering in class when he heard his name called.
Gray light fell through the window and across his face. He looked out at the sky and saw that white clouds moved in and masked the daystar. A storm could be moving in from the south, but it bore no comparison to the storm of his emotions.
He jumped when a knock sounded at the door. "Who—" he started and realized that his voice had changed into a deep growl of a sound that echoed upon itself. He squeezed his eyes shut and concentrated, cleared his throat. "Who is it?" he asked slowly, and his normal voice came out. He expected it to be Ahrden and his father, finished with their meeting.
"Kier? It's me. Can I come in?" It was Jarren's voice. "Can we talk?"
He cringed. "No, not right now." Sweat broke out along his forehead. He couldn't let that horrible voice creep back. Not now. Please, not now.
"Look, Kier, I'm sorry for what I said. I just wanted you to know. Taire and I... we shouldn't have been making fun of you that way. I don't think you're a freak, not like that, not a freak, you know. I thought maybe it was something you'd have found funny, too, you know... at least in hindsight. We didn't mean any disrespect." There was a pause as the boy outside the door tried to grasp something else to say. "My knee is healed," he added awkwardly. "I'm not mad at you over that."