To Trade the Stars

by Julie E. Czerneda

  “Good,” Morgan said, taking a second breath, feeling anxiety and grief competing for attention now that he was no longer in full attack mode. “Good. But tell ‘Whix—” He changed his mind mid-sentence. No point confusing the Tolian; there was a Carasian in the restaurant. It just wasn’t the Carasian they expected. “Tell ‘Whix there’s a body in one of the apartments. Ansel Delacor. He—worked at the restaurant.”

  Terk swore. “This isn’t going to help Huido’s case, Morgan.”

  The Human lifted one hand; Terk subsided. “It’s nothing to do with Huido,” Morgan said tonelessly. “Ansel was attacked by Ren Symon. I did my best to help him, but the damage—the strain—was too much for him. He died in my arms.”

  Terk scowled. “You wouldn’t have left with your engines at translight if you didn’t have a lead on Symon. Don’t try and go after him alone, Morgan. We can—”

  “Can what, Russ?” Morgan demanded, eyes intent. “I’ve had another taste of his Power. Enough to tell me that Symon, or one of his disciples, was responsible for the attack on Kareen’s mind, too—likely for the same reason: information. He’s got some new device of his own, some new trick, but what matters is nothing will protect you from him. Not your body armor and ship—and not your implants. Are you hearing me?”

  “And you’re so safe?” Terk protested. “He hates your guts, Morgan. It’s no accident Fodera’s body was dumped the one place it would bring you running.”

  “Am I safe?” Morgan repeated, then gave a short grim laugh. “Not in any sense, my friend. As Symon will find out.”

  Chapter 16

  I HAD to find out what was happening to me or go mad. Was I already? Surely it wasn’t normal to be three at once. At least three: a Self existing solely within the M’hir—an obvious sign of insanity, to imagine that; a Self reliving her own memories, peeling away layer after layer of untruth—more proof; and a Self barely able to whisper to the others, a self whose softest questioning could lure . . .

  The Singer.

  ... my seducer ...

  I recognized the choice, if not how I made it: . . . the song or my past . . .

  “There.”

  Adia’s voice was full of pride. I stared at myself in the mirror and wondered dully what she possibly saw that I could not. The white robe—which was ridiculously hard to put on without help, even had this one been my size—made my body into some grotesque thing, like a pole supporting a sail. My thin hair had ignored all of Adia’s valiant efforts to glorify or even tidy it, while my eyes—

  I turned away, unwilling to admit seeing my own fear. This was the next stage in my life, when I’d go from an overprotected and indulged Chooser, virtually captive in this House, to Chosen—free to go where I wished, when I wished. That longed-for freedom was minutes away.

  “What’s his name?”

  Adia, busy cleaning up the bath area, shook her head at me. “Sira, you know his name. Your father announced it last night.”

  I was tempted to stick my tongue out at her, but the heavy ceremonial robe seemed to inhibit such spontaneity. “Somewhere during the names of those candidates Jarad hadn’t approved, I stopped listening to him,” I confessed.

  The First Chosen was too well-mannered to reply to this, but I felt a warmth in her Power against my shields. “Coryl di Parth, my dear Chooser,” she informed me. “Firstborn and the most powerful of all the candidates available. Having him selected for your Choice is quite an accomplishment for the House of di Parth. When Coryl becomes di Sarc—as all predict, given your Power—they may yet gain a member on Council.” She came close, trying to affix a flower to my hair, something tiny and fragrant. I held still, hoping it would stay, but it slid free the moment Adia took her hand away.

  I tried to dredge up the memory of a face to match the name, but failed. “Have I met him?” I asked. “This Coryl?”

  “No,” Adia said, giving a light sigh of frustration as she absently tucked the remaining flower into her own thickly cooperative hair. She stood back and inspected me. “Ah, but you are fine as you are, Sira. It’s your Power-of-Choice that will draw him to you. And when you’ve Commenced, we will have more luck with flowers, won’t we?”

  Commenced. Choice. I felt a shiver of apprehension down my back that turned into something quite different: a dark warmth that moved within me, awakening places I’d never known could feel before. Awakening a need deeper than appetite.

  For the first time since losing my link to my mother, I began to believe I’d be complete again.

  My father and members of the Council, representatives from the House of di Parth—conspicuous in the triumphant, if unmannerly, taste of their Power—and other witnesses lined the Joining Chamber of sud Friesnen. I couldn’t have named any of them. The moment Adia led me through the door, my attention was locked on the Clansman kneeling in the red circle on the floor before the Speaker.

  “The Chooser has appeared,” the Speaker intoned. “Bring forth the duras, so that all may witness.”

  My candidate. His eyes flashed up to mine, then modestly down again. Dark, uncertain eyes.

  “Witness the blending of Power . . . Joining lasts forever . . .”

  There was something wrong with the air, I thought, finding my breath coming deeper and faster as Adia brought me to kneel within the red circle, the stone floor cold on my bare feet.

  Kneeling, my candidate—I remembered his name, Coryl di Parth—was taller than I by head and shoulders—slender, with fine elegant bones. The expression on his otherwise pleasant face, now that he looked at me, seemed an uncomfortable mixture of anxiety and some other feeling I couldn’t name, but shared. Perhaps it was anticipation.

  He reached his right hand toward me and, as I laid mine in it, I was pleased to note he had long, supple fingers, the type needed for the keffle-flute. It had taken me years to work out a technique allowing my shorter fingers to reach the uppermost . . . his hand was hot to the touch, I realized, losing my train of thought as that heat seemed to spread to every part of me.

  “Power seeks Power through the M’hir . . .”

  A duras cup was pressed into my free hand. Coryl didn’t look away from me as he brought his to his lips. I mirrored his actions, taking a deep swallow of the somgelt. Within a heartbeat, the age-old spice worked its magic, showing me Coryl as he’d appear in the M’hir itself. As Power.

  Power. The Power-of-Choice, my legacy as Chooser, boiled up through me, an irresistible force whirling us both into the M’hir ...

  I was the center of all things. The source and the goal. I was . . . There was an Other! I reached out with all my strength but couldn’t touch his distant glow. I tried and tried, but the more I stretched toward that brightness, the farther it seemed to be, as if the Power-of-Choice refused to let us combine.

  There was nothing else I could do. I pushed . . .

  ... and opened my eyes to see Coryl, shaking his head, disappointment plain to read on his face and in his Power. He dropped my hand as if its touch burned him. I felt him concentrate and watched him disappear—leaving me more alone than I’d ever been before.

  I’d failed.

  ... the lie parted, the truth protruding from beneath like the white splintered ends of a fractured bone through flesh . . .

  Power. The Power-of-Choice, my legacy as Chooser, boiled up through me, an irresistible force whirling us both into the M’hir ...

  I was the center of all things. The source and the goal. I was . . . searching for something. Ah. With a shudder, I remembered that urgent ecstasy and stretched arms of Power to seek it again . . .

  One arm touched an Other! An Invader! This was my domain. Mine and . . . The Power-of-Choice smashed into the dim, futile glow that dared approach my glory, that dared pretend to be my equal—snuffing it out completely . . .

  Finding nothing else to hold my attention, I pushed ...

  ... and opened my eyes to see Coryl sprawled loose-limbed on the floor, his jaw slack, eyes rolled back so only the w
hites showed. Someone—Adia—pried my hand free and pulled me to my feet; someone else was screaming, in my mind as well as in my ears, until Coryl’s body disappeared.

  I tasted the Power exerted to push Coryl di Parth’s empty husk into the M’hir. I could have done it, I supposed, a final courtesy for my brave candidate. I wasn’t sure what to do. This wasn’t supposed to happen.

  No one died during Choice.

  My mind, my Power, felt bruised but not drained. I leaned against Adia, feigning weakness, so she fussed and insisted on taking me out of that chamber of death.

  I couldn’t tell her part of me was sickeningly triumphant, that my Power-of-Choice surged with desire to defend my emptiness again.

  I could only hope Council wouldn’t find another candidate.

  INTERLUDE

  “I only hope Barac knows what he’s doing. He won’t listen to reason—just keeps telling me I’ll be fine without him! As if I would ever need the help of a sud!”

  Copelup gestured something peacefully noncommittal, tentacles holding a container firmly against his mouth as he reclined comfortably on the couch in Rael’s suite. The Clanswoman started to glare at him, but gave up. There was nothing satisfying in glaring at someone who was not only eyeless but was, to all intents and purposes, more interested in lunch than in her predicament.

  She should have taken Barac more seriously. He’d obviously overreacted to their last experiment with Drapskii. Typical of the unChosen to scamper away at the slightest hint of danger.

  Which wasn’t true of Barac, Rael reminded herself, picking up her own wineglass and sitting down slowly. He’d proved himself long before now. If he’d left her to be the only Mystic One on Drapskii, it wasn’t abandonment—hers was the greater Power, and it was only fitting Barac should leave if his was unequal to their task.

  Which wasn’t true either, Rael suddenly realized. Barac was weaker than she, of course, but he’d learned to use everything he possessed to its utmost. But something had changed in him following their latest encounter with Drapskii, almost as if he’d been unable to pull completely free of the planet’s presence, as if it still clung to him in the M’hir. If that were so, and Barac believed it dangerous, it might be why he left.

  “Perhaps he has a point,” she conceded, talking more to herself than the Drapsk. “Huido is a being we both hold in high regard. If Barac’s power is better used assisting him—for whatever reason—”

  The container, now empty, popped free. Copelup caught it deftly in one hand, putting it with others on the table. “A splendid representative of an admirable species,” he agreed.

  He meant the Carasian, of course. Copelup had been fairly blunt in his assessment of the Clan and its, in his words, arrogant presumptions about the M’hir. The Scented Way, Rael corrected to herself, aware she’d held all of these presumptions and her own share of arrogance before coming here.

  “Barac would come back if I—” she asserted, then stopped, feeling: a sending. Copelup’s antennae flopped in her direction as he sensed it, too. “There. I told you.” Rael started to smile as she opened her mind, then she locked down her shields to keep in all emotion. This confident, powerful contact wasn’t her runaway cousin.

  To what do I owe this honor, Councillor di Parth? Rael sent, as they tested each other’s Power in formal reacquaintance.

  Tie was powerful, but younger, with the too-easily aroused passions of a Chooser frustrated by a lack of candidates for her Choice. Rael was impressed she’d been able to keep those passions from alienating her fellow Councillors. So far. She could feel the tumult of conflicting emotions within Tie now, barely under control. Not a social call.

  Greetings, Rael di Sarc. I have information for the Speaker.

  Then why not contact Sira yourself? Rael allowed Tie to feel her amused scorn, well aware other Clan were afraid of Sira’s greater Power—not to mention her Human Chosen. Rael highly approved of that respect, even if she had little patience for cowards.

  If that were possible, I would have done so, with a snap of unease rather than temper. She has—withdrawn.

  Explain. Rael didn’t notice how she sat straighter, glass forgotten in her hand. Copelup did, and chewed a tentacle thoughtfully.

  She exists—as does her Chosen. The Watchers confirm it. But her mind is ... Tle’s sending faded, as if she needed to concentrate elsewhere for a moment.

  Her mind is what? Rael demanded with snap of impatience to the sending, anxious to try reaching for her sister herself.

  We don’t know. There’s something wrong. It’s not retreat or our form of stasis. It’s as if Sira has become spread within the M’hir—

  Not dissolved? Rael’s fierce denial of that possibility caused Tie pain. She didn’t care. Sira was appallingly vulnerable through Morgan—a being with too colorful a past for Rael’s comfort, however admirable his personal qualities.

  Tie didn’t protest—a sign she was truly concerned. There’s no diminishing of Sira’s Power. But she’s become— fragmented. There isn’t enough of her in any one place to form a locate. I'd hoped this was part of your experiments with those aliens, that she was there with you. Obviously I was wrong.

  The link was draining Rael’s Power as well as Tle’s, Power she would need to find Sira for herself. But she needed to know more. What does Morgan say?

  The Human? Hesitation.

  Ossirus, save her from xenophobic fools. Her Chosen—who should know better than anyone where Sira is now! If he didn’t, Rael realized with a sinking feeling, he’d be doing anything to find her. She’d seen firsthand the extent of Morgan’s attachment—his love—for Sira. There were risks to searching the M’hir. Morgan might be uniquely powerful for his species, but he was alien to that other space.

  Tle surprised her. None of us are sufficiently familiar with the taste of Morgan’s Power to try a sending, and he isn’t answering his com. We believe he isn’t on his ship, she sent almost primly. Perhaps you would have better luck.

  I’ll let you know. Rael promised grimly. As she prepared to pull away from their link, she felt Tle’s power holding them together. What is it?

  The information Sira wanted. She was right. Acranam’s fosterlings were dispersed using starships. Under threat of deep scan, the First Chosen of sud Eathem admitted the involvement of Wys di Caraat. She didn’t know the destinations of the others.

  Rael knew Yihtor’s mother, First Chosen di Caraat, better than she cared to: a thoroughly unpleasant, powerful Clanswoman unlikely to forget or forgive Sira’s rejection of her son and its result, but someone she’d considered harmless while on Acranam. As for fosterlings? Rael quelled her envy. I don’t see how this matters now—

  A dark, painful flare of emotions: anger, grief. It matters . We’ve located another of the fosterlings: Nylis sud Annk. The Scat ship took him too far from his mother, destroying their link. The Watchers warned Council, but not in time. Nylis must have tried to use his Power in front of the aliens, and they killed him for it. He was alone, Rael. Abandoned by his own House. How can such a thing be?

  Acranam, Rael sent numbly, as if that could explain it, but it couldn’t. Nothing could. To send a fosterling away from safety instead of to it? Insanity. To lose one like this? To have him killed even as he struggled—without help or comfort from his kind—to comprehend the shock of his new state, of suddenly becoming an unChosen? Rael couldn’t imagine it. Tears welled up in her eyes, tumbling like something cold, hard, and foreign over her cheeks.

  Sira must know about this. I’ll do what I can to find her and tell her, she vowed to Tie and herself, ending their connection.

  She opened her eyes, having closed them to better concentrate on the sending, to find Copelup standing in front of her, his chubby hand patting her knee. “What’s wrong?” the Drapsk asked. “Has something happened to Hom Huido?”

  “Huido?” Rael choked on the word. “No, Copelup. No. But there’s been a death. A tragic one. And we seem to have—lost—my sister. When I rega
in my strength—”

  The Skeptic seemed to compress into himself. For an instant, Rael feared he’d continue shrinking into a useless ball of uncommunicative alien, but he stayed with her. “Don’t tell me she’s—” All six tentacles popped into his tiny mouth, as though to stop the next word.

  “Oh, no, Copelup,” Rael assured him quickly, putting her hands over his. “No, Sira isn’t dead. I’d know. I’m sure I would. I just need time to recover before I can search for her myself. There’s something going on—” She stopped herself in time. Clan business, this business, wasn’t for aliens, not even the Drapsk. “Sira could simply be trying to have some privacy.”

  Tentacles popped free with a fine spray of moisture that thankfully missed Rael’s face. A feather’s touch against her ear. “You don’t believe that. You’re worried.” His voice became firm and determined. “What can we do to help, Mystic One?”

  Rael blinked. She hadn’t considered the Drapsk and their technology. “We must try to reach Jason Morgan. Otherwise? I don’t know, Copelup,” she said slowly. “But as it seems beyond the experience of our Council, perhaps it’s more within your understanding of the Scented Way.”

  Somehow, the Drapsk managed to look smug.

  Rael finally admitted—to herself—that she missed Barac, a sud—something she judged a consequence of their atypical friendship and a mark of personal weakness. Right now, however, surrounded by what could be mistaken for a riotously blooming garden, but was actually the varicolored plumes sprouting from the heads of far too many Drapsk crammed into a single room? She’d give a great deal to see her cousin trying to make his way through to her.

  The Silver Fox had responded to their hail with an automated message about cargo holds and speed, but Copelup had responded to his new mission with gusto. He must have invited every Drapsk scientist even remotely connected with research into the M’hir—and they’d brought assistants. While the room where they gathered was large—a multileveled open space, with machines lining two walls—Rael worried if it held enough air for them all.