The Kinship of Stars

by Julie Ishaya

  "I wasn't just wandering," Kieriell objected. "I teleported down there specifically to see the dome again."

  "That's no excuse," Adam snarled. He closed his eyes, took a breath to calm himself, then he looked back up. "Any one of a million things could have happened. What if you incidentally missed the throne room and teleported into the colony? Some one could have seen you."

  Kieriell seemed unfazed at first. "I wouldn't have missed. So, what did Asmodéus mean when he said that there are some here who could kill their own brood?"

  "Oh, I'm quite close to killing my own brood right now." Adam's voice still rasped low and angry. He realized immediately that it was the wrong thing to say when Kieriell cringed.

  "Well?"

  Adam shrugged. It was a perfectly good question, and he could answer it, but he didn't want to. As his frustration with Kieriell lifted, all he could think about was entering that room and seeing his son dangling from Asmodéus' hand. "He was testing you. That's all."

  "Testing me? He nearly killed me!"

  "Enough, Kieriell." With a loud sigh, Adam gathered his patience. "He was referring to how turbulent the shift can be," he said finally. "When we shift, we act on our more animalistic instincts, or we find our anger driving us too far, until we are lost in it. An elder Nexian might, incidentally, shift so far out of anger that he could become very dangerous. It is a kind of insanity to shift so far, so our kind proves to be much more fragile that we care to admit. I know you're going through it now, as the shift emerges in you. You feel angry easier than before, and you find your talons sprouting, your eyes changing. Even when you manage to withhold it, you still have a yearning to lash out verbally if nothing else."

  Kieriell gave a solemn nod, and Adam could see that something was cutting his son deeper. "Yes."

  "A Nexian with fully developed shifting capabilities still struggles against flaring emotions and instincts. Why do you think the chamberlain spoke of shields and masks?" Adam again tried to reach out with his senses, to see if Kieriell was truly comprehending all of this. The first emotion he touched was embarrassment along with a flash of fear from that first encounter with Asmodéus.

  "I promise I won't wander on my own again," the boy finally said.

  "Just don't keep fretting over it. What's done is done."

  "Do you think he's still angry at me?"

  Adam gave an indifferent shrug. "He was never angry at you to begin with. He did the same sort of thing to me when I first came here."

  "Really?" Kieriell's eyes widened. "What happened?"

  "Some other time." Adam pushed away from the desk. "And now we are being summoned for repast."

  "How do you know?"

  Adam smiled and opted for plucking his son's last surviving nerve. "The walls tell me. Just as they told me you were no longer in your chambers when you went to the throne room." He moved past Kieriell and waited in the corridor.

  Kieriell mutely surrendered and followed his father from the room without any further complaint.

  The lights in the banquet hall cast a warm glow from their hovering fixtures. Kieriell kept staring past their glare at the cavernous shadows that engulfed the high ceiling. With the emperor at the head of the great obsidian table, the crown prince was seated to the left, and Kieriell was placed to Asmodéus' right. The chamberlain sat on the other side of the younger prince and simply observed. General Kallian didn't join the table but kept a constant stance near the head. Guards flanked every entry.

  On the way to the banquet, Adam made Kieriell aware that most of the attendants would be members of the court, but no other high lords would be there. That suited Kieriell perfectly. He didn't feel ready to meet the rest of the Nexian consulate until he was well settled in. Some thirty Nexian men and women arrived, all of them finely dressed, each wearing his or her hair at a rank-compatible length. Some were minor lords, the younger children of the high lords, and ambassadors. Others were officers to the Dyssian Order. Kieriell met each one and observed their decorum, their strange beauty. Many of the males openly displayed traits of the shift with their eyes tinged serpentine, their talons lengthened slightly but not threatening. He wondered how they could maintain these features and remain emotionally neutral.

  Along the table, platters of exotic foods were arranged in alternating semicircular fashion: sweet meats served bloody, spicy soups and slices of fruit. A number of imported Valtaerian dishes associated with Nall were served for Kieriell's benefit. These mainly consisted of various types of fish, sea plants, and rich breads.

  Adam made an official introduction of his son to the room, and then all were seated to eat.

  Still unsettled by his experience in the throne room, and by Asmodéus' close presence now, Kieriell ate little. He watched across the table as his father casually dined while casting glances at Asmodéus; he glimpsed their frowns, their eyes rolling toward him and then back to each other. No doubt a telepathic discussion was going on between them.

  "Well, young lord, how are you liking your new home?" The chamberlain's question hung in the air unanswered while Kieriell slowly pulled his gaze away from his father.

  Before he thought of an answer, Kieriell looked up at the silver mask then noticed that there was no food on the chamberlain's plate. He bunched up his lips in thought, brows furrowed. "Not so good."

  "You will adapt," the chamberlain said. "I understand there was a small dispute in the throne room."

  "Don't remind me." He glanced back at his father and Asmodéus. "Does Lord Grandsire always speak telepathically?"

  "Most of the time. He finds the spoken word crude."

  "I haven't developed telepathy yet," Kieriell remarked. "I only have telekinetic skills with shadow weapons, but that was a standard discipline taught at the school." He thought better of mentioning that he could also teleport.

  "Telekinetics have their purposes, but you will find that everyone here is skilled in shadow weaponry."

  "I guessed as much." Kieriell sighed and resigned to change the subject. "Why aren't you eating?" he asked.

  "I much prefer to eat alone. I am only required to be here socially."

  "Don't you feel like it's a waste of your time?"

  The chamberlain gave a soft chuckle beneath his mask. "I wouldn't say that. I'm here talking to you, aren't I?"

  Kieriell shrugged. "Whatever you say."

  "In addition to your father's guidance," the chamberlain added almost reluctantly, "I may be instructing you."

  "Really? What will I be studying? Besides mapping and such?"

  "Ah, your father already informed you of our mapping techniques. You'll be instructed in Nexian history and politics and on our relations with the Shiv. You'll also have psionic strength development and some further combat training."

  "Ripping."

  "Excuse me?"

  "Uh, nothing."

  At that moment, a familiar voice invaded his mind, low and muted. (Charming use of vocabulary.)

  He found Asmodéus watching him intently. "You really think so?" he replied before he thought better of it, just an edge of bitterness in his tone. "Maybe you should try it. Loosen up. Speak so everyone else can hear you."

  "Kieriell," Adam hissed in warning.

  His gaze locked with his grandfather's as a silence gradually fell down the line of the table. Conversations gradually came to a stop and tension thickened the air.

  "Young one, I advise against your tact," the chamberlain whispered close to his ear.

  (Listen to him,) Asmodéus agreed. He discarded his eating utensils and sat back from the table. (Tomorrow you will submit to an evaluative mind probe.)

  "Lord Father, no," Adam objected. "He isn't ready for that."

  Asmodéus sat so still that the cells of his being might have become stone. Slowly his lips began to move, while no other part of him so much as twitched. "You will attend my chambers first thing on the morrow cycle," he continued to Kieriell.

  Kieriell wasn't surprised to find the spok
en voice every bit as deep and calm as the telepathic one. He frowned as a sliver of dread tickled down through his body.

  Asmodéus gazed down the length of the table at the other courtiers. Those close enough to hear the exchange remained silent as he gave them all a quiet and apologetic nod and calmly went back to his meal.

  Asmodéus drifted into the small room and absorbed the warm colors, the pillows surrounding the couches, the long stained-wood table from one of the outworlds. A series of beaded strands hung in a tapering curtain from the ceiling, the colors of red, dull yellow, gold and brown.

  A platter of sliced fruits sat on the table along with rolls of rare meats, but obviously little had been eaten. Even less had been drunk from the tarnished silver goblet of wine beside the platter.

  The black, hooded cloak lay strewn across the couch, the silver mask abandoned nearby, its eye sockets dark, empty.

  Asmodéus smiled to himself at the discarded items.

  "Something amuses you?" The deep and familiar voice strayed from across the room. The figure standing with its back to the door now wore a leisure uniform with a maroon tunic. Pale hair spilled down to mid-back.

  (How are you feeling?) Asmodéus asked.

  "As well as can be expected. The centuries are catching up with me. Soon—"

  (You are planning to leave us,) he finished for the chamberlain. (I've seen it in your conduct. In the way you paused when I spoke to you before the banquet, when I asked that you might assist in Kieriell's education. I'm here to ask again: will you at least keep your office long enough to train my grandchild?)

  The chamberlain turned around, revealing his face and the deep lines branching out around his eyes. His hair framed features which had once been the perfect image of a Nexian: sharp cheekbones and jaw line, full, arching brows, the brilliant color of the eyes.

  But the features were marred. A pearly-brown, scar ran from the center top of the forehead. It diagonally crossed the bridge of the nose and proceeded down to the edge of his left jaw line below the ear. The flesh along its edge was puckered and jagged.

  Asmodéus shook his head softly. (Forgive me for staring, my friend.)

  The chamberlain stepped closer until they were eye to eye. (There is nothing to forgive,) he sent and then on the level of no more than a psionic whisper, he added, (Arctus. Named after our very star.)

  (I have no more need for that name.)

  The chamberlain moved to pick up the goblet and sip from it. Blood-hued wine glistened on his lips. (On the contrary,) he continued, (I think you do. It is who you were before you assumed the mantle. It is still who you are now.)

  (No, there is a certain consciousness inherited along with the mantle. It has long since altered who I was before I took the throne. Arctus has little place to exist in comparison to Asmodéus.) He took a seat on the couch, his hair draping over the edge and winding about the floor at his feet. (You think I'm being too hard on the boy,) he stated.

  The chamberlain arched one brow and returned to verbal speech. "Again on the contrary. I think that you are attempting to ensure that something that happened in the past doesn't happen again."

  With a reluctant nod, the emperor returned to his more familiar form of communication. (As you will. No, I don't want what happened with Adam to occur again.)

  "It has been nearly thirty-six years since that happened. The more you hang on to that mere fragment of past, the more likely it is to happen again."

  (Kieriell Shyr'ahm can teleport. He may be a transcendant.)

  The chamberlain cocked his head and frowned in disbelief. "I wasn't told."

  (No one else here knows but myself and Adam, and now you.) He sat forward and propped casually on his knees. Worry creased his brow. (If this were to become known too soon, Kieriell—)

  (Would become a target for the adversaries. They would test him constantly until they found a failure in him. It would be like the case of the last transcendant born on Nex.)

  (Precisely. Adam and I have made a mutual agreement that Kieriell's skills will not be announced to the rest of Nex until he is ready.) He nodded agreement with the chamberlain's cautious glare. (I know. It is a breach of the Nexian code, but we will have to bear that guilt. The neural core will not object to our silence if the order comes from me. I asked for your help because I want you to coach the boy in the use of his skills. He may only teleport now, but what will happen when he traverses worlds or dimensions with a single thought?)

  (I see now the point in your severity with him.)

  (So you see why I move to condition him now? I must know every particle of his fabric before I allow him to stay here. He has tremendous power, which he is only partially aware of. Power that can easily be abused. Will you agree to help?)

  "Yes." The chamberlain bowed. "I would be honored to teach him, my lord." He looked back up, "But on one condition: by no means will I do it alone. You must play some part in this. You cannot stand back as you did when Adam was first brought here."

  The last statement clung to Asmodéus as ice crystals. The muscles in his neck clenched.

  After his upbringing on Valtaer, Adam Asmirrius had come to Nex to face a great many trials, at the heart of which had been his own father's cold countenance and distance. Asmodéus could only blame himself when his son sought solace and acceptance elsewhere.

  Now he recalled Kieriell's young face, how it had peered at him in the throne room, the expressions hovering between amazement and fear. The cheekbones and jaw were sharp, while the eyes slanted delicately, the skin unflawed except for one tiny pimple on the chin. He was a pretty child, that one. It would be centuries before rigid lines and planes formed on his face to mark him a man in feature.

  Asmodéus had seen himself in that child. He saw Adam there too. Saw all of the mistakes of the past reaching forward, offering him redemption if he swore not to let them recur.

  After a long moment of pouring over the considerations, of heartening himself to continue without looking back lest his buried angers control him, Asmodéus finally nodded. (Very well. I will do my part.)

  7

  The morning period after the banquet, Kieriell ate nothing to save his knotted stomach the grief. He took directions from the chamberlain on where to find the emperor's chambers. Almost an hour later he came upon the doorway, a large aperture, open and waiting for his entry.

  He stepped through, his head lowered but his eyes cast up to survey the outer chamber. The geometric pattern of a nine pointed star was inlaid in the floor, its mosaic outlines comprised of some reddish-colored stone. He recognized it as the same symbol he'd seen on his father's belt buckle. He proceeded to the next open passage.

  Asmodéus sat behind a desk upon a five-stepped dais with two columns to each corner of the lowest step. The chair's winged back resembled a smaller version of the throne. The dais, chair, columns, and the emperor himself were all silhouetted against a smooth wall of pale stone.

  (Step forward,) Asmodéus commanded.

  Kieriell advanced until he was at the bottom of the dais. He wondered if he should bow or drop to his knees in a humble gesture. If so, he couldn't if he tried for his legs felt cemented at the joints. The worry and anticipation clamped him all over and every part of him felt cold.

  Asmodéus stood and looked down on the youth. (Has your father told you anything about these evaluations?)

  "You get to the point, don't you?" Kieriell remarked softly.

  (Answer the question.)

  "No."

  Stepping from behind the desk, the emperor descended wearing a long blue robe. His hair had been fastened loosely in segments at his mid back and again near knee length, so less of it touched the floor. Stray wisps heavily streaked with gray tapered free around his face. At the bottom of the steps, Asmodéus took a moment to examine his grandson's rigid form, the Dyssian colors and uniform. (It is a common process. You submit your core-being for a psionic examination to determine your level of loyalty and your affinity to adapt to the env
ironment of Nex. I will also know whether or not you would betray me.)

  Kieriell's brow drew up in a deep furrow.

  (You must submit. There are no choices in this matter.)

  "But why?" Kieriell whispered.

  The harsh line between Asmodéus' brows deepened slightly then softened. Swiftly he brought one hand up and laid it against the side of Kieriell's neck where the muscles were most tense. The talon on his thumb gently tickled over Kieriell's chin and he examined the bronze amulet with the phoenix crest on it. Kieriell trembled at his grandsire's touch. While the talons played gently on his skin, he remained ever so aware of their sharp tips. How they could tear his throat out. The emperor's cool silence also did nothing to relieve him.

  There are some here who are capable of devouring their own brood.

  Kieriell closed his eyes as sweat began to break out across his forehead. "Don't do this," he pleaded.

  (Don't be afraid. Open your mind, Kieriell.) Asmodéus touched at the droplets sparkling on Kieriell's brow. (If you do not let me in, then I will tear a path myself.) His entire hand opened and spread across Kieriell's face, clamping down hard, his fingers running into the youth's hairline.

  Kieriell jerked defensively, his eyes sealed under the weight of the massive palm. As the first psionic wave intruded on his senses, his head titled back as his body seized and he knew absolutely that Asmodéus' presence was in every crevice of the palace walls, melding with the neural system and closing in. The emperor's very blood coursed beneath the surface of the floor. His breath thickened the air.

  Darkness bled in and out of Kieriell's mind. Tendrils of his consciousness reached out to find supports to cling to. The invading force pressed against his memories, massaged them up to the surface where like blisters they swelled into perspective. Those memories most well guarded were picked open and bled. They became painfully highlighted, standing out from the others like polished jewels amid scores of rough pebbles.