To Trade the Stars

by Julie E. Czerneda

  “Oh, Mystic One,” Heeroki blurted, hands working in the air as if to fan some urgent message toward him. “She shouldn’t have traveled the Scented Way. Not now. She’s in danger. Great, grave danger. It’s all the fault of the Makii—and their ill-advised Mystic Ones—”

  Morgan surged to his feet, ignoring whatever else the Drapsk said as he drove his thoughts outward, reaching with all his strength.

  There. She was there. But not. This wasn’t the familiar sense of preoccupation—it was if he hammered against a transparent wall, seeing Sira from behind but unable to attract her attention and make her turn her head to see him. Morgan kept trying, expending power until it felt as if he left bloody handprints on that wall. Still he fought to reach her.

  “Mystic One! Mystic One! Cease, before you call danger to her! Please!”

  The frantic tone, more than the words, penetrated Morgan’s consciousness. He drew back into himself, staggering once before standing firm, feet slightly apart. “What danger? Who did this?” he demanded in a voice that made both Drapsk start to back away.

  “We don’t know who. We only know something has her scent. Something in the Scented Way. Something is—interested. Our enemies. We came to warn you—”

  “Something—?” Morgan stared at the small white beings, but saw another, darker shape, glistening as if wet, its fibrous arms stretched toward their cabin door. Toward Sira? “Who? What? Is it the Rugherans? Tell me!”

  The Drapsk sucked their tentacles, then Heeroki suddenly rolled to join his shipmate in abstaining from further conversation.

  Morgan took a deep breath, rearranging his features into a mask of polite attention. He, a Master Trader, surely knew better than to lose his self-control in front of another species; scaring the remaining Drapsk into an incommunicative ball wasn’t going to help Sira. Mollifying his tone to something almost normal-sounding, the Human continued: “Your pardon. I experienced an—intense—emotional reaction to a threat to my mate.” Understatement wasn’t a lie, he thought grimly.

  The Drapsk’s antennae stopped quivering. “Is the Mystic One all right?”

  Drapsk, but not Makii, Morgan reminded himself, abruptly wary as he recalled that it had been the Heerii who had found the Rugheran homeworld and brought one of those beings to be their candidate for Mystic One. A candidate defeated by Sira, in Human terms, though not necessarily in Drapsk. The interface between any two thinking species was never a perfect match; even basic understandings could prove dangerously skewed the moment you relied on them.

  Yet this warning had been brought by these Heerii, not the Makii. Trust had its place in negotiation, if only temporarily. “She’s trapped, somehow,” Morgan admitted reluctantly. “I can’t communicate with her. I’m not sure she’s conscious—or even on Plexis. But she’s alive.”

  “Oh, my.” For an instant, Morgan worried this Drapsk would desert him as well, but Heeru was made of sterner stuff than his shipmates and merely trembled. “We had no idea the situation had deteriorated so quickly, Mystic One. Our ship was dispatched to find you when it became clear to our Skeptics that they’d lost control of the Clan Mystic Ones—”

  “Rael and Barac? But they went to Drapskii to help you.”

  “Their help,” Heeru said grimly, “may destroy us all. We hoped you and the Makii Mystic One could be persuaded to return to Drapskii with us, to stop them before they disturbed That Better Left Alone. Now—”

  “Now,” Morgan interrupted brusquely, “I must find Sira.”

  Instead of arguing, the Drapsk coaxed a stool from the deck and sat. “Of course. My ship is at your disposal, Mystic One. But where do we start?”

  Captain Heeru, was it? Morgan didn’t comment, taking the hint and sitting, reluctantly. Adrenaline might be roaring through him—the urge to do something, even if it were just to kick balls of Drapsk around the room, nigh overpowering—but he knew there wasn’t anything he could do—yet—alone. Not without knowing more. “What can you tell me about the Rugherans?” he asked.

  Two tentacles disappeared within Heeru’s mouth. The Drapsk chose to speak around them, turning his words into a moist and barely comprehensible mumble: “The Rugherans? They can’t be involved.” The tentacles popped out again. “They are quiet, peaceful beings. Quite planetbound, Mystic One. Ours was the first starship they’d ever seen. They have none of their own—”

  “They travel the M’hir—the Scented Way, do they not?” Morgan posed the question, then leaned forward, forearms on his thighs, to study that blank globe of a face. Not that he expected it would help. None of his research into the Drapsk helped him reliably read meaning in the ensuing wriggle of a rosy tentacle or pursing of a lip. Those feathery antennae, presently flicking upward along one third their length? Beyond his Human comprehension. Unfortunately, the opposite wasn’t true. The Drapsk sensitivity to scent and sound likely gave Heeru all manner of information about his, Morgan’s, emotions. As well, he told himself wryly, try to hide his state of mind from Sira.

  Still, he thought the Drapsk was surprised. Not outright shock—more as if he’d given the Captain of the Heerama something new to consider. “You sound sure of this, Mystic One,” Heeru said slowly. “Why? We have not observed the Rugherans controlling their entry into the Scented Way, as do the Clan. Our Skeptics believe their contact is limited.”

  Reasonable question—reasonable trust, Morgan thought, and no more. “Because,” he said smoothly, sitting up straight. “I’ve seen one do it.”

  Chapter 13

  AT first, I wasn’t sure how to do it, how to move in this place. I floated, or did I soar? The sensation was of both water and air. Or neither. My mind lacked words for the medium in which I rode—or which moved past me—as well as for how I traveled here.

  Why I wanted to move? That, I understood. I was being drawn, but not against my will—by my will. The pounding of what had been blood, the unbearable burning in what had been a body, pulled me onward. I sought—release.

  As if summoned, the Singer came toward me, his song a rush of power through my being, his need my own. I fought to reach him.

  I failed.

  Something was between us: an obstacle, cold and harsh, entropy made tangible. It kept us apart in spite of our passion. I writhed with desire that couldn’t be fulfilled. Under the strain, my mind ripped ...

  “Welcome, Sira di Sarc. What do you think of your new home?”

  I thought I’d rather live anywhere than in this hovel perched on a mountain. This wasn’t an answer which would be received at all well by the First Chosen of sud Friesnen, obviously proud of her home, so I waited in silence for her next question, my mind politely still and calm, as I’d been taught. A small, very private rebellion.

  The rooms set aside for me were pleasant and well-furnished; bare of anything personal, though someone must have been displaced on my behalf. The wide stone balcony hanging out over the cliff face wasn’t a novelty to someone raised on a planet blanketed with glittering, cloud-kissed towers. Being used to heights I supposed, with time, I could grow used to staring out at an emptiness of sky, ice, and rock.

  Adia sud Friesnen, First Chosen, wasn’t so easily ignored. “Are you hungry, little one?”

  I’d have stayed silent to this, too, offended by the familiarity from someone so inferior in Power, but my stomach answered for me with an embarrassingly loud rumble. My mother, Mirim sud Teerac, had warned my appetite would increase once I left her. I hadn’t realized it would be immediately.

  My hostess tactfully didn’t smile. “Do you have any favorite foods? I’d be happy to have our cook make them for you.”

  “I will join your House at its next meal, First Chosen,” I said, making the gesture of gratitude, but with the twist of my wrist that indicated superiority. “I’m sure whatever is served will be satisfactory.”

  “You are most gracious, Sira,” Adia said with a bow. There was a suspicious twinkle in her eye, as though she found my pride amusing. I allowed it, all too awa
re I would be in this House, under the rule of this Clanswoman, for at least the next few months of my life. And the First Chosen of any House, even sud or weaker, held authority in everyday matters over both kin and guest.

  Any other authority was established by Power. My mother, sud to my father’s di, had not been asked her opinion as to where I would be fostered. I, more powerful than either of my parents, had. They’d brought in a chair suited to my child’s lack of height at that Council meeting, but made no other accommodation to my age. The meeting blurred in my mind; understandably, since they had held it well after my bedtime in a strange, M’hir-encased room, speaking in terms that alternately confused or bored, until they began telling me what they wanted.

  The Council wished to move to a new Human world, called Camos; they claimed it was a better, more central location now that our kind had begun to expand beyond the Inner Worlds. They said other things I didn’t understand, about concealment and how Stonerim III was no longer secure from prying eyes. But first, Camos would need to be connected through the M’hir to wherever Clan had chosen to live, with pathways any Clan could travel at will.

  Other fosterings were being arranged to produce those pathways to neighboring systems, or to those already linked in a chain to Camos. Their need of me? They wanted to take advantage of my unusual strength to forge a single, direct pathway from Stonerim III to Camos, for the Council’s convenience and safety. This pathway would be shared with other Clan once the Council had moved and reestablished itself.

  I was more bewildered witness than participant. The Clan Council voted unanimously that I should ‘port myself within the day from Stonerim III, my home, to Camos. An unheard-of distance and a threefold risk since, should I fail and be lost in the M’hir, I could pull my mother with me. Her loss, in turn, would doom the mind of her Chosen, Jarad di Sarc, newest member of the Council.

  My father seemed willing to take the risk. I accepted his confidence as a reassuring belief in my untried abilities, too young to appreciate it as a sign of ruthlessness, that Jarad would do anything to rise within the Council. Those senior to my father believed the most direct pathways were begun by fosterlings who ‘ported themselves through the M’hir. My father knew it wasn’t true, that what mattered most was the Power ebbing and flowing across the mother-offspring link. The greater the difference, the stronger and subjectively shorter the path produced. And he knew my mother was weak ...

  ... I struggled to seal the tear before it set this of all memories free . . .

  Adia’s smile was determined, the feel of her Power soothing and kind. “Would you like to meet your cousins, Sira?”

  Having already scanned my surroundings and detected the Power of nine individuals—two tasting young enough to qualify as “cousins” and none approaching my strength—I stayed seated, my hands on my knees, my back perfectly straight. “I would prefer some time to rest, First Chosen,” I told her.

  A shiver of awe in the M’hir between us—a reaction I would come to expect. Adia and the others of my new home understood better than I, perhaps better than the Council who’d sent me, what I’d accomplished coming here. I’d changed forever the limits the Clan had thought existed. Now, some would dare the unthinkable, forbidden distances; measuring themselves against a prodigy. I hoped, with the callous pride of youth, that they’d fail.

  To her credit, Adia saw more than my fame and Power. The Clanswoman, all elegance and grace, sank to her knees on the floor before me, her hands reaching to cover mine. I felt her concern against my shields; her hair, like cool weighted silk, slid over my arms. “It’s so far. Do you still feel her?”

  I nodded, mute. The link between my mother and I held, filled with warmth and support, a living connection I couldn’t imagine being without.

  It was a link I maintained with my own Power, for as I’d ‘ported to Stonerim III, I’d felt my mother slipping away as I passed beyond her ability to reach me.

  I’d felt . . .

  ... No. I wouldn’t relive this ...

  A different room; another world. Our right hands rising to touch, palm to palm. My mother’s was larger, warmer, and dry; mine trembled until I felt hers press firm against it.

  Unusual for Clan, Mirim’s face wasn’t a study in fine-boned symmetry. Her gray eyes were smaller than average and closer set than most. Her hair was a lovely red-gold but unfashionably restless; she kept it caged within a net of spun green-toned metal, a pre-Stratification relic from her grandmother. Her mouth was her best feature, wide and ready to smile whenever she saw me.

  Except today. Today, everything and everyone was serious. I was tempted to laugh—it was less shameful than tears. I felt her thoughts in mine: steady, little one; you can do this.

  Having been able to do anything I’d tried, best any challenge from my age-peers and thoroughly intimidate my elders, I didn’t need confidence. But this was somehow different. Through our bond, I could feel my mother’s anger, an anger she sent openly along her link to my father and tried unsuccessfully to keep from me.

  He showed no outward sign, standing in a row with the others from Council—powerful guests to witness my fostering. Mother insisted it was an honor. I watched them out of the comers of my eyes.

  The locate I was to use rested in my mother’s thoughts, given to her by a visitor from the House of sud Friesnen, where I would stay. As our palms met, she put it in my mind: a bright, spare room with walls that appeared to be of stone. The sense of place was intense and rich. The locate must have come from someone who’d lived in this room, not just wandered through to collect this mental reference for me.

  Go forth, little one, she sent. I will stay with you.

  With the courage of inexperience, I nodded, then looked deep into my mother’s glistening eyes, and pushed . . .

  The M’hir had been my playground until now, safely defined by the lines of Power etched into the space encompassing Stonerim III and those neighboring worlds with Clan. For the first time, I threw myself past it all, the locate drawing me like a lodestone, my mother’s link like her hand in mine . . .

  Within an instant, I found myself in a room I knew, though never having seen it for myself before this instant. I wasn’t alone. A tall Clanswoman stood making the gesture of welcome.

  ... Lies . . . Lies . . . my mind ripping farther apart as belief and memory went to war . . .

  Our hands, palm to palm . . . The locate in my mind . . . Her calm: Go forth, little one . . . I will stay with you . . . I pushed, my mother’s link like her hand in mine . . .

  Our link . . . began to fail almost at once, as if her fingers were being wrenched from mine to leave only the cold of fear behind. My mother was too weak to hold me. Desperately, I poured more and more of my own Power to support that weakening thread between us. I couldn’t exist alone!

  I felt myself thinning within the dispassionate confusion of the M’hir, the only locate still clear in my thoughts that room on Camos—a safety I could reach if I drew my Power away from my mother. If I let go of her hand in the darkness.

  A child shouldn’t be asked to make such a choice.

  I could sense my mother becoming frantic, putting herself at risk to stay with me; I shared her growing hatred of this place that threatened to tear us apart.

  A blinding snarl of images, no single one comprehensible, together a horrifying mirage of things forming from seething patches of energy; unseen shapes molding me into theirs; what weren’t hands grabbing for whatever Power lay within reach: mine, my mother’s, others; like a flash of light, all perspective shifting as I became the one taking what I needed to survive, tearing it free to add to my sense of self until . . .

  Mine was the greater Power.

  ... a floor appeared beneath my feet. Air thrust itself up my nostrils and slammed against the back of my mouth. I found myself in a room I knew, though never having seen it for myself before this instant. I wasn’t alone. A tall Clanswoman stood making the gesture of welcome.

  I couldn�
��t move, blink, or breathe on my own until I felt my mother still in my thoughts, despite distance and fear, our link steady, strong—and mine to keep.

  ... Not right . . . another link . . . I fought to leave the past.

  “Welcome, Sira di Sarc. What do you think of your new home?”

  ... What was happening to me? ...

  INTERLUDE

  Of the many things that had happened to him lately, Barac sud Sarc, former First Scout and Mystic One, thought with permissible self-pity, this was the first he could honestly say he’d done to himself.

  And was proud of it. It took work for a Clansman of his experience to reach this stage of inebriation. He peered owlishly at the low table, whistling soundlessly to himself as he counted eleven empty bottles of Drapsk beer and noted he hadn’t quite finished the glass of Denebian wine that promised to put him nicely over the edge of . . .

  ... of what? Unconsciousness? Nowhere near that point yet. Barac sighed, a deep, heaving breath that shuddered through his entire lean frame and sent him staggering back against the wall. He grinned. Clever shortcut, sitting on the floor.

  “Mystic One?”

  Barac’s head lolled to one side as he attempted to see who’d said his name. Either his vision had finally blurred, or there were two identical Makii Drapsk standing beside him. An unfair advantage. Couldn’t they see he was occupied? “Call me Barac,” he said very clearly and distinctly. “I resigned, you know. Didn’t Cop-up tell you? So go away.”

  “Don’t worry, Mystic One,” one said. “We’ll help you. Maka?”

  Before Barac could point out that he’d done just fine without any help whatsoever, he felt a sharp pain in his side. “Ouch! What was that?”

  Maka, finished stabbing him with a needle easily as long as Barac’s hand, didn’t back away as the Clansman tried, unsuccessfully, to stand. Instead, the Drapsk brushed his antennae very lightly over Barac’s mouth. As the Clansman coughed and sputtered, the Drapsk announced proudly: “There. It’s working already.”