Morgan raised his mug in acknowledgment, but said firmly: “An accident of birth, Rael, one my Sira isn’t very pleased about.”
“And neither are you?”
Morgan examined his drink. Then he looked directly at her, his expression full of some emotion Rael couldn’t interpret. “What do you want me to say?”
“Nothing,” she answered, too quickly. “I shouldn’t have asked. No matter what else you are or have done, Captain Morgan, you’ve risked a great deal to help my sister. I want no reason to wish you harm.”
There was a quiet buzz from the com panel. Morgan rose, then turned to glance back down at Rael. “The scanners have found something worth looking at—if you’ll notify your cousin? I’ll be in the control room.”
With a troubled frown, Rael watched him go.
Chapter 27
I FOUGHT my hands, frustrated by the way they trembled and cramped instead of obeying me. This time I won, forcing them to tilt the canteen to my lips. I took a small sip, then made my fingers replace the cap and tighten it. I let the canteen fall on my chest and held it there, comforted by its weight.
My mind drifted more now, no matter how hard I tried to hold a thought. Most often, I forgot where I was, imagined myself on another world, dreamed of storm-driven sand. Afterward, I would wake to find my fingers bloodlessly tight on the canteen.
Shafts of weak sunlight peered into the cave: the afternoon of another day.
Two days,
I remembered, my thoughts tired and slow. Two? Or had it been more since I’d last looked outside, been able to stand and walk. The canteen was lighter and I was weaker. The fever was gone, for now.
Somehow, I’d held my mental shielding in place as tightly as I gripped my canteen. He was waiting, I knew, lurking outside the edges of my delirium, the worst nightmare of all. I used my dread of Yihtor for strength, having drained every other source long ago. Once or twice, I’d weakened and tried to go to Morgan, to call for help. But the fever had robbed me of that ability as well.
The tiny drink cleared my mind, a gift I didn’t appreciate. The trouble with thinking clearly was the icy certainty that I was going to die soon, here and alone. A tear I couldn’t afford chilled my cheek.
A sliver of sunlight flickered across the palm of my hand, quickly disappearing. I tried to quiet my breathing, groping for the blaster at my side. Whatever shadowed the cave entrance made no sound. When the ray of light returned an instant later, I let go of the heavy weapon with a small sigh. My eyelids drooped. I was so tired.
It started like a dream, but was more, I knew, even in my sleep. I was in a darkly paneled room, lit by floating portlights, their globes confined at varying heights by rope tethers. Artifacts were displayed on wooden pedestals placed near each light. The floor wasn’t even, rising in steplike layers, irregular in shape.
I wasn’t alone. A tall man part of me knew as my father was walking around the collection, examining each piece in turn, the only other life in this place of dead things. The jewelry here was no longer to be worn against warm skin but only looked at; the toys and treasured games no longer to be played with but merely dusted as necessary and observed.
There was another level of remembrance. I somehow knew that the objects’ order and arrangement in this place mattered. Some objects were given more prominent display than others, regardless of their apparent value.
There were family names with each object. I realized abruptly that I was looking at a genealogy, exhibited as belongings and organized to display each individual’s power in the M’hir. This was the Hall of Ancestors, my father’s most private sanctuary.
The intensity of light on each object varied. None were unlit, but some were illuminated more intensely, to capture the attention of a visitor. The brightest light shone on a small, ragged piece of fabric, embedded in a crystal that reflected a brilliant pattern over the entire room, claiming its supremacy over all.
Again a node of knowledge quietly coalesced. This scrap, so carefully preserved, was all that remained of the personal effects of my great-grandmother, First Chosen of the House of S’udlaat, the leader of the M’hiray during the Stratification. The words were hollow, someone else’s history, no longer mine. Yet I knew the brilliant illumination was the more accurate remembrance of her, the scrap of cloth only its anchor. Sira Morgan, that part of me, felt warmed by the thought of being able to name an ancestor, could imagine the gentle touch of a grandmother’s hand. Another part of me knew simply a fierce and possessive pride in her power.
This was a place I had come to often, though I hadn’t particularly cared about old things. But why?
I think I slipped from memory into delirium again, deeper than before, losing any answers that might have escaped the blockage in my mind. In my delirium, I heard voices, an incomprehensible chatter. Motion followed: at first jarring so that I muttered in protest, later smooth and almost lulling. There was a coolness, a spreading relief from the fever’s burn.
I woke to find my latest fever-ridden dreams had been the truth. The cave was gone. I was curled between smooth sheets in a room which looked depressingly familiar. Two highly placed windows filtered sunlight, softly illuminating a bedroom better furnished than Morgan’s prison, but I’d little doubt its function was the same. Yihtor had found me after all.
“How do you feel?” asked a female voice.
I turned my head on the pillows, frowning as I tried without success to identify the woman standing beside my bed. Spiderwebs of age lurked in the corners of her eyes and mouth. Her hair was piled above her head in a complex structure, as if trying to add some height. She was still short. I disliked her instantly. “Where am I?” I asked.
A small, wise smile appeared, giving her face a faintly crafty look. “Caraat Town, Fem di Sarc. Capital of Acranam. The Lord Yihtor has graciously extended his hospitality to you.”
I sat up, pleased to discover no lingering dizziness, feeling better every second. “Tell Yihtor I’ve no intention of accepting anything of his, offered graciously or otherwise.”
The old woman chuckled. “What do your intentions matter, child of Jarad? My son and I have waited far too long for you.” She scowled. There was something disturbing about the look in her eyes as they swept over me. “I hope we’ve not waited in vain. For whom have you Commenced, girl? It had best be for my son.”
“Commenced?” The word meant something, something vastly important. Ignoring her, I flung myself from the bed, rather surprised at my strength, and hurried to the mirror on one wall. Yihtor’s mother came and stood at my shoulder, an unwelcome witness to my first look at the change which had taken place.
My body was gone.
At least, the thin, angular one I used to wash and dress was gone. In its place was a figure that rounded the plain white shift I wore into unfamiliar curves. My face—I moved my fingers incredulously over soft skin which was no longer sallow or scarred but which glowed with life. I touched my lips, tracing their fullness. Only my outrageous hair was unimpressed by the changeling I faced, tumbling in heavy red-gold to frame a face transformed from gaunt to radiant health. “I was sick—” I began, more to myself than to the leering figure at my side.
“Nonsense,” Fem Caraat said. “Though it’s as well for you the aircar pilot spotted your escape pod. Choosers aren’t expected to huddle alone in caves during Commencement, Sira di Sarc. It was a foolish thing to do. What if you’d been attacked by some animal?”
I didn’t bother to answer; her concern was for her own plans, not for me. Instead, I surveyed my image more critically, looking at another stranger, though with features hauntingly like those I remembered. The gray eyes were still my own and held the confused puzzling in their depths I was certainly used to feeling. This change was something I should have expected, one part of my mind said matter-of-factly. But there was something very odd about the timing.
“How do you feel?”
Her self-centered solicitude was becoming annoying. I turned away from the mirror. “How should I feel?” I snapped. “First I almost die of fever, and now I’m a prisoner here.”
A chuckle. “Well, you should feel marvelous, if memory serves me.”
I stared at the old Clanswoman, unwilling to acknowledge she was right. Strength surged from my head to my toes; I felt alive in every part of my body. I had probably never felt as well in my entire life.
But what truly mattered was inside. I concentrated, reaching for the M’hir.
It was like pushing against a wall, a wall of some thick sticky substance that gave a bit then held firm. My shields worked, but my questing thought was effectively imprisoned within my head. I was ordinary again, I realized, and didn’t like it at all.
I looked at Fem Caraat.
She smiled cruelly. Her finger pointed to the bedside table. The small bottle with its accompanying syringe told the story all too well. “Roraqk’s drug,” I said. I’d have strangled her cheerfully if I thought it would do any good.
“Actually, we supplied the pirate. The forests here provide us with many of our needs. So elegant, don’t you think? And much easier on all of us, my dear. You really wouldn’t want us to use other methods. Now tell me.” Her hand gripped my shoulder. “For whom have you Commenced?”
I shook free. “You’ve no right to question me, old woman,” I answered coldly, while my thoughts were busy calculating chances, my eyes searching the doorless room for any possible aid. Of course, life would have been simpler had I known what she was talking about, but Yihtor’s mother was the last person to whom I’d admit any ignorance.
Then, we were no longer alone. Yihtor stood beside his mother, his face tight and beaded with sweat. Fem Caraat whirled on him, hissing: “This is no place for you!”
“Who tampered with her?” he demanded in a hoarse voice.
My back stiffened. “Who hasn’t, Clansman?” I snapped.
Fem Caraat waved her thin hand at me furiously. “Be quiet, girl.” Then to her son, “Go!”
“How can she refuse me?” he said almost plaintively, looking down at the Clanswoman. “The Power-of-Choice burns in her—I can feel it. It calls me.”
My own power was smothered by their drug, but I could feel a surging pressure I knew was Yihtor’s. His mother moved to stand directly between us, why, I wasn’t sure. Not that I wanted to refuse her surprising protection.
“Be patient. The Joining will take place tonight before our guests—as planned.” She stressed the last word.
This seemed to calm Yihtor. His green eyes lost some of their fire. “I can wait,” he said. “But no longer than tonight.” He disappeared.
Immediately, the room seemed larger. Fem Caraat scowled at me and shook her head. “You are driving my poor son mad.” Then she grinned, the expression deepening the lines around her eyes. “As a Chooser should.”
“I don’t know what you think you’re planning—”
“Of course you do. And you should be honored that your magnificent power will be linked to that of the House of Caraat, as it always should have been.” She stepped toward me and I backed up involuntarily. “Did you think we wouldn’t find out what they planned for you? Did you think Yihtor wouldn’t have a watch on the Cloisters, waiting, spying, knowing eventually you’d come within his reach? Did you think we’d let them dump you on Auord, to be used for their plans, when you belong to my son?”
Her breath was hot on my face as she moved nearer, crowding me. “Power,” she said in a grating whisper, talking more to herself than to me. “Power is everything, daughter of Jarad. Names, lives, the future—all that mattersis to gather power and use it. We left the Clan because the Council refused to grant my son the power he desired and deserved. Now he will have it.
“Once we were a passionate people. Pairs sought each other because it was their destiny, not the dictates of a Council. They lived or died by their own natures. Tonight Caraat Town will see the return of passion as we celebrate the Joining of Caraat and Sarc. You will fulfill your destiny. You will Choose and Join with my son.”
“You can’t impose Choice,” I said, sure of that much.
“No, we can’t,” her agreement surprised me. “But my son hasn’t wasted his time, Chooser, waiting for you to come. He has prepared himself. He hunted out secrets, stripped the knowledge he needed from the best minds in the Pact. If you do not or cannot Choose him in the natural way of our kind,” she gave a little shrug, “that will be your end. But not ours.”
“What are you saying?”
Her next words rang against my ears like blows. “If necessary, Chooser, we will simply strip your mind to an empty and harmless husk. A waste, but don’t worry, your body and its potential will be well cared for.
“After tonight, there will be a fruitful Joining between the House of Sarc and that of Caraat—whether you have a mind to notice it or not.”
She chuckled again. “There are clothes in the cupboard in your size, Fem di Sarc. We’ve had a great deal of time, you know, to prepare for you.”
Fem Caraat picked up her skirt and vanished, leaving an unpleasant feel to the air.
INTERLUDE
“There it is again. You’ll have to look close—it’s quick, all right.” Terk’s voice held none of its usual antagonism as he and Morgan crouched over the tiny screen. The copilot’s couch had given up trying to mold itself to accommodate Terk’s unusually broad shoulders. “There! Did you catch it?”
Morgan looked at the Enforcer with respect. “How you found it, Russ, I’ll never know. Perhaps you’ve got some of the Talent yourself.”
“It was just a case of scanning for flux using the C-978 meter, rather than steady—” Terk’s pleased explanation was cut off by the arrival of Barac and Rael.
“Have you found Yihtor?” Barac’s hair was tousled from sleep. His resemblance to Sira was noticeable. “Well, did your gadgets work or not?” Barac demanded somewhat impatiently.