“You are coming, aren’t you?”
I curled myself tighter in the chair, knowing she couldn’t see my face in the dim light. “I don’t feel well. Give the First Chosen my apologies. Now go. You’ll be late.”
She stepped closer, eyes dilated, her small hand reaching toward me. Enora’s Talent lay in her empathy and, even this young, it was impossible to hide feelings from her. She didn’t confuse my sorrow as illness. “Sira? Why are you so sad? Fostering is a happy time. Mother says so. She’ll be with me. And you and I can still talk mind-to-mind. Please come.”
Come? Be there when she used what strength she had to ’port away from her mother, from me? “I can’t, Enora,” I confessed, feeling tears spill down my face. “I’d disgrace you. I can’t stand there and pretend to be happy you are leaving.”
Fostering was only Enora ’s first step away from me. I looked at her, seeing the lovely lines of the Clanswoman she would be, one day. There would be no lack of candidates for Enora sud Friesnen. She would foster, become a Chooser, Join, and move to a House of her own. I knew the pattern too well, having watched my entire generation move on and leave me behind.
Even my mother. I couldn’t leave the Cloisters, as the sud Friesnens now called their home, without risking the unChosen. Mirim had never come to me. Now, she was preoccupied with caring for my newborn sister, Rael di Sarc. In time, Jarad claimed, Rael might be fostered with me, so that the passage from Camos to Deneb might be strengthened. He was always planning for the future.
I couldn’t imagine one.
Enora climbed into my lap, a familiarity I permitted, and tucked her tiny head under my chin. She smelled of flowers and soap. “I can’t go very far,” the child said without shame. “I’ll still be on Camos. You could visit me.”
“Camos has become too full of Clan, little one,” I sighed, hugging her close. “It would be too dangerous for any un—” She was too young for details. “It wouldn’t be wise for me to travel away from home, right now,” I temporized.
She pulled back to look into my eyes. I could feel her determination. “Then I’ll come back here. I swear it. After—after—whatever lies ahead, I’ll come back here to live with you. Unless you’ve gone . . .” This last was said with a tremble, as though she’d suddenly considered I might change after all, and no longer be waiting to play in my gray stone tower.
I gave Enora a gentle shake. “I’ll either be here, or I’ll be visiting you. How’s that, little one? Now, why don’t you help me choose something suitable out of my closet? I think I do feel well enough to come to your party.”
. . . years could be an instant, as easily as an instant take years . . .
“I wish you could attend, Sira,” Rael didn’t quite pout, but the intention was there.
I raised a brow rather than laugh at my heart-kin. “No, you don’t.”
She was radiant. That was the only word I could find for my sister as a Chooser. Rael was strong in her own right and Talented, but now, augmented and encased by her Power-of-Choice? If I slipped into the M’hir, she was dazzling; to my ordinary vision, her fair skin glowed and her eyes sparkled with excitement.
And why not? Joined, Rael would be free to leave the Cloisters, a home she’d shared with me happily, but which had never been enough for her spirit. Rael, like many Choosers her age, was powerful enough to be lethal to a weaker candidate. Council fluctuated between joy and dismay at this change in our kind: joy, because the surge of ability within this generation benefitted all Clan; dismay, because mine hadn’t been the only disastrous attempt and Houses were becoming less willing to risk their unChosen sons.
I had no fear for Rael’s candidate, confident she would successfully Choose Janac di Paniccia. I should be; I’d selected him. Our father hadn’t argued—not because he agreed with me, but because he judged Janac too weak and likely to fail. What he called, privately, “the weeding out of the inferior among us” didn’t bother Jarad at all.
It bothered me. I’d spent the last three years delving into family records, researching, hunting for the best possible match for Rael, a candidate whose Power complemented hers in more subtle ways than mere strength. I had never met Janac in person, of course, nor contacted his mind—for the same reason I wouldn’t be in attendance at my own sister’s Choice. The unChosen couldn’t help but seek the more powerful Chooser, as insects to flame. So Rael would ‘port to Deneb for her Joining to avoid me. Our mother and new sister, Pella, would be at her side.
My remaining role in Rael’s life? To help her pack.
“They say the firstborn of di Caraat has exceptional Power,” Rael said suddenly. “What’s his name?”
I slipped a gift into her last bag. The servants had taken the rest. “Yihtor,” I told her, though she knew perfectly well. “Council rejected him.”
“Or you did.” Her eyes flashed in sudden anger. “You have to take a chance, Sira, or you’ll be here forever—”
“If that’s what it takes to make sure no one else dies, then so be it!” I fired back, but gestured appeasement immediately. “Forgive me, heart-kin.”
“Always,” she said quickly, but shook her head. “Understand you? Never.”
“Maybe Pella will do better, then. She starts her fostering with me very soon.”
“Will you try and teach her, too?” My sister picked up my keffle-flute and tossed it at me.
I put it to my lips and trilled a laugh. “Someone else in the family must be able to carry a tune,” I said optimistically. Rael hadn’t the patience to master the flute, though she’d worked diligently to perfect her Talents.
We both felt the summons. “Time to go, Rael,” I told her. “Janac’s waiting. Be well. And come back to visit as soon as you can.”
Her eyes glistened with tears. “I will. I promise.”
I watched Rael disappear, leaving me alone, again.
. . . was I safer skipping through memory or was that safety a lie, too . . .
The explosion may have been minor, but it took us unawares. In the hall, I caught the sleeve of one of the servants, an older Human named Persio. The air was choked with dust. “Are you all right? Was anyone hurt?”
“I’m fine, Fem di Sarc. So is everyone else. But you shouldn’t stay down here. There could be another explosion.”
“There shouldn’t have been a first,” I said dryly, letting him dash away on whatever errand was required. Cleaning, that was certain.
After Adia’s death, I’d taken the sud Friesnens’ home as my own. I was the only Clan who lived in the old stone building these days, with the exception of the brief and usually tumultuous intervals when my fosterling, Pella, deigned too return. She took advantage of my preoccupation with my studies, ‘porting around Camos with a fine disregard for her age and responsibilities as fosterling. Her link with our mother would probably last less time than Rael’s, even with the solid pathway already in place between Camos and Deneb. At least Pella enjoyed the keffle-flute, somehow attaining a reasonable proficiency despite having the attention span of a water drop under the midsummer sun.
For once, I was pleased by Pella’s absence, since it meant she’d missed the mysterious blast which had taken out part of the lowermost floor of the Cloisters. Only one room and an entrance, both hardly used, had been damaged. The building was as solid as the cliff that hosted it, and only the most precariously perched crystal had broken. The puzzle remained: why? Technology wasn’t an interest of mine, but taking on the duties, if not rights, of First Chosen meant paying attention to the household. So I knew the room had contained nothing that could explode—just some old exterior storm panels. They’d become unnecessary once Camos established complete weather control. It made, I grumbled to myself, no sense.
Until I ’ported back to my rooms and immediately found all the explanation necessary. The harmless explosion had been deliberate—a diversion that allowed an intruder to land his aircar on my balcony without notice. I would have felt any Clan ‘porting into my home,
but not this.
So now, a handsome stranger confronted me in my own bedroom, one who dared to smile and greet me, as if his Human-like subterfuge would please me. “Chooser.”
“Fool,” I replied. This had to be Yihtor di Caraat. An unChosen. I could feel his need inflaming the M’hir between us—the dark eagerness inside me responding no matter how I tried to ignore it. “Is this how you wish to die?” I demanded harshly. “There are other Choosers, suited to your Power.”
“I will offer you Choice,” he said thickly, as if he hadn’t heard or didn’t care to hear. I thought the latter. “You, the jewel of them all.”
I should have ’ported away the moment I saw him, but it was already too late. I wasn’t immune to instinct. Compared to my emptiness, his longing to be fulfilled was a grain of sand to my desert. I stared at the hand Yihtor held out to me, feeling reason slip away as mine lifted to meet it.
Suddenly, my father was in the room, and others from Council. Yihtor’s handsome face turned into this desperate, ugly thing, screaming defiance even as the other Clan ’ported him out of reach. I would have followed, but for a second, my ‘port was blocked.
It was long enough for sanity. I found myself again, shuddering inwardly how close I’d come to—I stopped the thought and bowed with an unusually fervent gesture of gratitude to those lesser in Power to both the Councillors and my father. “How did you know?” I asked Jarad, then shook my head in wonder. “You expected Yihtor to try something like this. You had him followed. Why didn’t you stop him sooner?”
“He wouldn’t take no for an answer. Or listen to Council dictates.”
We’d never become affectionate, but knew each other well enough after all these years. Jarad had aged impressively, gaining presence and poise. I hadn’t aged, outwardly, but at times like this I felt even older. I’d changed; he had not. Jarad performed the occasional courtesy for me, such as reserving every table at a restaurant in the nearby city so I could leave the Cloisters for a meal with him. He would listen to my music or my studies, finding both agreeable pastimes if not extended too long. I judged each of these encounters by what he wanted to gain—at times no more than to remind himself of my Power, as if he gauged me against some candidate he investigated.
At others, we discussed Council matters. I was older than most on Council, more powerful than any, and, as Jarad was fond of telling me, I should be on it. I wasn’t so sure he’d relish our debates when a vote depended on our agreement—because we rarely did.
So now, I glared at him, understanding the exquisite timing of Jarad’s arrival with Yihtor’s. “You wanted to prove to me how far he’d go. What he’d dare to reach me.”
Jarad’s eyes gleamed. Just so, Daughter.
“Now will you listen to our advice, Sira?” Councillor Sawnda’at asked.
I scowled. “You want to fortify my home because of one fool you’ve already caught.”
“Because of the others to come, Daughter. Unless you’ve changed your mind and wish to receive unqualified candidates for your Choice?” Jarad said with false compassion.
“Install your fortifications,” I told Sawnda’at, looking at Jarad. “But before you lock me away, I want the Council records I’ve been using for my research transferred here.”
Crisac di Friesnen, older than when we’d first met, but not much wiser, objected immediately. “Ridiculous! Krea di Mendolar, our late Speaker, was right to refuse you any access within the Council Chamber. It was only after his untimely death that your father swayed Council into humoring this absurd pursuit. Now, you’d ask us to risk sending such irreplaceable—”
I stopped him with a pulse of Power—rude, but effective. “If you want me to stay here, Councillors, to await your needs, it will be on my terms, not yours,” I said evenly, including my father as I gazed at them all in turn. “You cannot keep me here. You cannot force me to Choose. And do not pretend you can guarantee I will ever have Choice or be free of this prison you’ll make for me. The records that I want. By tomorrow.”
As one, they disappeared, leaving the M’hir tasting of capitulation and respect, with a touch of triumph I knew was Jarad’s. Their emotional response didn’t concern me. I would have what I wanted, those records and my privacy to research their secrets. To find out how to stop all of this . . .
I picked up the keffle-flute and went out to my balcony. With a disdainful flick of power, I pushed Yihtor’s aircar out of my way, sending it to join the rest of the destruction he’d caused in my home.
The cliff dancers came out slowly, used to me, if not to disappearing machines. This time of year, the tiny creatures dared gravity to prance and perform for their mates. Much like Yihtor, I thought with a sigh. The music I chose to send over the cliff was filled with melancholy and despair, an outlet for my impossible longing. I played for hours, through the sun’s setting. I played until my fingers grew too cold to hold the flute, then, comforted and calmed, I sought my bed.
. . . sought the truth, fought to remember . . .
The cliff dancers . . . I lifted my flute to my lips and began to play notes of loneliness and aching need. It was as if the sound came from inside me, not the instrument.
I couldn’t stop playing as the Power-of-Choice struck at my consciousness: demanding, craving, wanting. It had been aroused once and wouldn’t be ignored . . . or satisfied. So I played louder, with more and more passion, as if the music could lift the pain from me and carry it off the cliff.
It bought the Singer instead.
The portion of my mind touching the M’hir heard him first, underscore and thunder roll of percussion, adding depth and resonance beneath the flute. Each beat pushed my heart harder and faster, sent blood pounding in answer. I kept playing even as my body burned, wanting more.
Because part of me finally understood. This wasn’t an attack or invasion. It was a seduction, begun when I’d fought to hold my mother in the M’hir, continued throughout my life to this moment. Seduction by an unChosen, of a kind, who cared nothing for Sira di Sarc or the Clan, but who lusted for what I had to give: the Power-of-Choice, perhaps Choice itself. Seduction by a master, whose fingers of Power stroked and tormented my inner self with rising crescendos of unheard music, until I could hardly remember who or what I was, knew only a desperate need to be filled, a need that seemed suddenly attainable.
Yet I held at that brink, somehow finding the strength to see the truth through the heaving darkness, to know this wouldn’t be my completion, but the Singer’s, that our Joining would consume and destroy all I was. I couldn’t deny the temptation to submit, to leave my life behind in one orgasmic moment, if this was all there could ever be. But I refused to believe that. I demanded more. I demanded hope. The Singer’s spell over me faltered, weakened for a single beat. I could pull free . . .
... to find myself lying half over the balcony wall, staring down into the confusion of rock, shadow, and twisted shrub that dropped straight to the valley floor. A disgruntled cliff dancer squeaked its annoyance before scurrying impossibly down the vertical stonework to disappear beneath the overhang.
My keffle-flute almost fell from my sweat-soaked hand. I almost let it, afraid of what the music had brought to me.
Afraid I wouldn’t be able to resist next time.
INTERLUDE
The next time Barac relied on Drapsk transport, if ever, he’d pick a better destination—just in case they marooned him again. He presumed Huido would have transport already arranged to get them both off Ettler’s Planet. The name was rumored to have started as “Settler’s Paradise.” If so, thought Barac, it was more perverse Human wit, since no world could seem less attractive from orbit. Ettler’s was almost completely arid and owed its wealth to a happy concentration of minerals rare in neighboring systems.
Well, at least the Makii had taken him away from Drapskii. The Clansman sighed, pulling his cloak tighter around his neck. The bite of the morning’s wind advised raising the hood as well, but it seemed too long since he�
�d felt fresh air moving of its own accord. Besides, there was no harm in showing Humans his face—Barac knew his looks were considered attractive by most of that species and exceptionally handsome by some. Why waste Power to obtain cooperation, when a smile would do?
Not that a smile would have helped obtain more from the Makii. Barac wasn’t sure the Makmora would be able to lift before her crew was convulsed in gripstsa. He’d never seen Drapsk so upset. They hadn’t been able to explain their aversion to his contacting the Heerii with any clarity, babbling about ascendance, danger, and some nonsense about a risk to Drapskii.
Barak had found himself wishing for Copelup. The Skeptic only made sense when he wanted to, but it was more often than this. He’d been tempted to contact Rael, to pass along the question to the Drapsk, then changed his mind. She’d been abundantly clear in her opinion of his leaving Drapskii in the first place. This?
She’d gloat at his being marooned. He knew she would.
There was no doubt, however, that the Makii believed the Heerii posed a danger. What that could be, beyond more alien confusion, Barac couldn’t imagine, but he wasn’t about to ignore anything that made four hundred Drapsk roll up into balls. A good thing the docking tug alarm jarred most awake.
They’d been generous, if hysterical. Barac had willingly used their credits to park the Makmora’s aircar at the edge of the shipcity, feeling more comfortable traveling on foot in a new city. City? The Clansman surveyed his surroundings with an experienced eye. Rosietown wasn’t quite that, but he was pleasantly surprised to find any sophistication out on the Fringe, especially on such an uncomfortable-seeming world.
The shipcity itself was standard: an ever-changing conglomeration of ships and the shipways between them. It sprawled over most of a huge salt flat, which donated an acrid dust to be raised by anything that moved, from feet to docking tugs, stinging eyes or whatever exposed tissue might be sensitive. A fickle wind took any dust inclined to settle and stood it in columns between the ships, while the intensity of the rising sun promised a glare from every reflective surface by noon.
To Trade the Stars Page 21