But the only way to solve the riddle was to mix with the crowd. Morgan smoothed his dress tunic almost as carefully as he checked his mental shielding. Then he stepped nonchalantly onto the cream-colored pavement, immediately becoming lost in a stream of pedestrians.
Chapter 36
STEPPING off a cliff would be easier, I thought, staring from the windowless entrance chamber into the Council Chamber itself. Under my feet was a solid floor. Ahead was something perspectiveless, shifting, the only solid focus being a dais with seven hooded figures. The hall somehow existed both in the M’hir and in real time. The power needed to balance that existence was expended with a casualness even more intimidating than the fact.
I took the necessary first step, trusting my foot would find something solid under that whirling play of color, using my own awareness of myself within the M’hir— and a dose of healthy fear—to keep myself anchored.
Among those waiting, an indistinct head nodded slowly. I took another step forward. Then layer upon layer of anxiety and fear gently peeled away from me like pieces of too-tight clothing.
There was a welcoming here, a warmth that disarmed . . .
. . . until I found I had accepted betrayal without protest. Band upon band of unseen restraint enclosed me abruptly, tightening its hold upon my mind until my steps faltered and stopped. A cold wave of hostility flushed the last remnants of the soothing welcome from my thoughts. Lights brightened above the Councillors, whitening their robes to a harsh brilliance. The shifting boundaries of the hall solidified into real walls, ceiling, and floor. The magic was gone. It had, I told myself bitterly, never existed.
“Offspring of di Sarc. The not-Chosen.” I couldn’t decide which of the still faceless Councillors made the acknowledgment—or wasn’t it more of an accusation?
I knew my father had followed me and now stood as paralyzed as I did. Subtly, a pressure eased and I found I could speak. “You know me,” I said. “Who—”
A different voice, deeper, broke across my words. “Answer our questions, not-Chosen. We have not yet decided as to your right to question us.” There was a placating note to this voice, a humoring that sent a thrill of fear rippling through me. I’d been trapped so easily by their combined strength; they controlled me despite the power I was supposed to command.
The message under the voices was clear: I was theirs to deal with and there had never really been any doubt as to the outcome of this meeting.
“Ask your questions,” I said finally, firmly enough. There was certainly no point in inviting any more drastic form of inquiry.
“Why did you refuse the Choice offered by Yihtor, son of Lorimar and Caraat?” a third voice asked.
A betraying heat warmed my cheeks. “Choice is my right! I didn’t have to accept him.”
Two hooded heads conferred noiselessly, then the one on the right seemed to look at me. “We rephrase the question, daughter of di Sarc.
How
were you able to refuse the Choice offered by Yihtor?”
Yawning open before me was the abyss Barac and Rael had feared. How ironic to know I’d designed the trap for myself. I wished fiercely to be able to move, if only to make a rude gesture, but my body was merely a sense of weight. “If you know to ask the question, you know the answer!” I responded furiously.
“Let’s say we
suspect
the truth, not-Chosen,” the first speaker said coldly. “Would you accept this Choice now?” Two figures appeared on the dais to one side of the row of seated Councillors. Barac’s eyes widened slightly at the sight of me. My attention was on Yihtor. Why didn’t he look at me? In fact, he seemed oblivious to everything, including his surroundings.
I didn’t need the Councillor’s gesture toward Yihtor, or Barac’s immediate loss of color to understand the net the Council was weaving.
“You don’t care if I kill either of them, do you?” I looked at my former foe, now seated on the floor, trapped as tightly as I was in their plotting.
“The House of sud Sarc would be lessened by Barac’s loss. He has learned to use his power well—if at times willfully.”
I wasn’t sure if this was as callous as it sounded, or merely the height of praise from one Clan to another. Could power and its use really be all they cared about in someone?
“What about him?” I said, unable to point at Yihtor, equally unable to explain the slack-mouthed expression on the renegade’s handsome face.
“We value individuality. But we do not tolerate rebellion,” explained the deep voice, still in that humoring tone. “This was once Yihtor di Caraat. His House is exiled. His mind has been dissolved within the M’hir. So you needn’t waste your pity, not-Chosen. There is nothing in this shell to die under your power.”
“There’s nothing left to Choose, then,” I said slowly, knowing deep within I was right. “You can’t force me to release the Power-of-Choice.”
“We’re wasting time!” The robed figure at one end of the row stood up, throwing his hood to the floor at my feet. Faitlen’s face was fixed in a scowl. “Why argue with the pathetic remnants of her mind? We know what must be done. This talk, talk, talk is unnecessary.” A toadlike figure materialized beside him, cloaked in mud gray. From the sudden rigidity of the rest of the Councillors, the identity of the widemouthed Retian was not unknown to them.
A voice from behind me, rough with emotion: “Removeyour creature from our Council, Faitlen! Have you no decency!”
Faitlen leaped upon my father’s words with obvious delight. “Who are you to dictate to Council, Jarad? Be glad we don’t choose to punish you for daring to interfere with our great purpose!”
“Enough!” The centermost figure rose, removing his own hood and gesturing to the remaining Councillors to copy the move. No face was familiar to my blocked memory. No face looked other than determined, though to their credit most seemed uncomfortable. “You’ll accord the House of di Sarc the courtesy due its power and lineage, Faitlen, or find yourself on the Contest Floor.” A pause during which only Barac met my eyes; he was afraid, too, but I could see most of it was for me, not of me. I smiled at him, hoping he knew I understood.
“Jarad, we share your feelings. But what must be done shall be done. You’re free to leave if you wish.” There was an ominous tightening of the unseen bonds. “If you stay, we will tolerate no interference.”
“I’ll stay, Sawnda’at,” my father’s voice was thick but firm. “And record for all time the infamy you and your so-called ‘Council’ intend.”
“Infamy?” repeated a dark-haired Clanswoman with features hauntingly like Enora’s. “Are you equally prepared to witness our salvation, Jarad? We must gain control over the Power-of-Choice and over the destiny of our species. Don’t you—”
“I thought you had questions for me, Councillors,” I said flatly, repulsed. “If not, then I agree with Faitlen. This is becoming a game, and only you know the rules.” For some reason, my gaze slid back to Barac’s pale and troubled face. This chamber was no place to attempt mind-speech, but I thought there was some urgent message in his eyes.
Sawnda’at spoke as if repeating a lesson, his face donning a remote mask. “Sira di Sarc, we will not condone any further perversion. That your experiment was successfulin initiating Commencement has absolved you and your kin from punishment, although you knowingly flouted the Prime Laws which guard our kind and the M’hir from alien contamination. The Human, Morgan, will be caught and his knowledge of us erased—as should have been done long before now.” He pointedly refrained from looking at Barac.
Morgan. His name dropped so casually from the Clansman’s lips sent an almost physical shock through me. How dare they try to make Morgan pay for their mistakes? I was no less to blame, I thought bitterly. What Morgan knew made him a danger, a source of humiliation, a potential threat that could ignite the vast numbers of his race against the powerful but scattered Clan.
I was Sira Morgan, not Sira di Sarc of the Clan. The price of being both was too high. I began to test the strength of the paralysis that held me.
“Sira di Sarc,” Sawnda’at continued. “You will Join with our Choice for you, since you yourself are neither Chosen nor unChosen. Following a successful Joining and pairing, you will be free to continue your life as a Chosen, no longer bound save by the Prime Law.”
I’d have liked to raise an eyebrow at this, but had to settle for a cough. “Who have you
chosen
for me, may I ask?”
Faitlen vanished from his seat on the dais to rematerialize before me, but his attention was all for my imprisoned father. The triumph painted on his sly features was more than I could stand to watch, and I looked past his sneer to gaze sadly at Barac. I avoided Yithor’s empty, drooling face.
Sawnda’at’s voice was crisp. “We hope to salvage the power of Caraat’s lineage as well as yours.” Yihtor, of course. I didn’t need to hear Barac’s curse or to see Faitlen’s taunting smile. “If the attempt is unsuccessful, Barac sud Sarc will be granted candidacy.”
I raised my eyes to the remaining Council members and surveyed them one by one. Then I drew my eyes back to Sawnda’at. “I’d prefer the truth, Clansman, not more lies to grant you an easy conscience. Even I know Joining isn’t possible with the mindless; perhaps the Power-of-Choice can’t destroy him, but it would rebound and destroy me. If you’re changing your own laws, at least admit it.”
A Councillor who’d been silent until now broke the heavy silence that followed my accusation. “We are indeed changing the old Prime Laws.” His voice shook, but a hint of strength underscored the words. “We intend to save your inheritance, Sira di Sarc, your progeny and
their
power, since, regrettably, we can no longer save you.” He gestured toward the Retian. “Baltir’s people have possessed the necessary technology for many years. He assures us he can provide a fruitful pairing.”
I strained to move my hand. Had a finger responded? I wasn’t sure. Barac smiled at me, a resigned look-what-you’ve-got-us-into-now smile. “How fortunate for you I was able to provide you with the perfect candidate.” My voice dripped with acid. “But you’ll need more than that!”
The necessary path was ready, I’d prepared it what seemed another lifetime ago on Acranam. I poured all of my available strength into its protection. Faitlen’s smile faded and he looked to the rest of the Council with comical dismay.
“She prepares herself for self-death—” he began. Baltir, who had been a silent spectator, smiled, quite an impressive grimace on a face that was more than half mouth.
“Death is no obstacle,” he said, his voice accentless and more precise than any Retian of my acquaintance. “In many ways, it makes things simpler.”
A storm struck the interior of the chamber and sent the walls whirling away. Reality exploded into the M’hir. Reds, blacks, all the colors of rage and destruction blocked my vision. I fell to my knees as the restraint snapped. Deafened by sound more in my mind than without, I covered my head and tried to sense what was happening.
Jarad. Somehow in the whirlpool surrounding me I felt my father as a point of force. And a focus of all other forces. A hand grasped my arm, a physical contact pulling me up and dragging me through the maelstrom. I resisted, heard Barac’s hoarse voice in my ear: “He buys us time, Cousin. Hurry.”
How Barac knew where to go, I couldn’t imagine. Certainly vision was useless in the play of illusion and reality warping the hall and adjoining chambers. Perhaps my father guided us. Perhaps he had deliberately chosen this type of contest in order to cover our escape.
Whatever the truth, I sobbed as I ran. Even without full memory, I knew the extent of my loss as the conflict behind us settled into an exhausted, ominous calm.
Chapter 37
BARAC didn’t care for our current refuge; I thought it wasn’t so bad, but kept my opinion to myself. We were in some sort of maintenance tunnel that twisted like an intestine through the depths of the complex. I liked the shiplike closeness of the walls and ceiling; the metal and oil tang to the air was comforting.
Barac shuddered again.
“We’ve got to keep moving.” His shields were up, but some of his desperation spilled over. I nodded and stood.
“When can we use the M’hir?” I asked, making an effort to be helpful.
“Not here. The Council—” Barac’s eyes were white-rimmed; his skin gleamed with sweat even though the air down here was chilled. I saw that his arrogance was gone, probably with it his confidence and faith in his own kind. The last hours had shaken loose everything he believed.
I was much better off, having lost nothing. No, I corrected myself guiltily. I’d lost a father. “The Council may be exhausted,” Barac continued more calmly, “but there will be Watchers touching the M’hir, waiting for any disturbance or movement. Our only hope is to reach the Human portion of the building, wherever that is, and find some way through to it.” He stopped, looking a bit more like himself, and shrugged. “Actually, there’s no hope. I’d be lying to say there was.”
“I don’t need any hope, Barac.” I tapped my fingers on a pipe, wondering how I could continue to feel this burning impatience when I was so physically and emotionally drained. “I’d be satisfied with a blaster like Morgan’s.”
“Would Morgan himself do?” An incredibly grimy head poked out from a crawl space, the covering grate falling to the floor with a clatter. Barac said something incoherent, rushing to help the Human wriggle his way out.
I stood, frozen with surprise as Morgan shook himself, dust flying from him in choking clouds. His hair was crowned with cobwebs. “Don’t they clean in there?” I said at last, stepping back to avoid breathing the stuff.
“Guess not. It’s an odd system, that’s for sure,” he muttered. The dust settled. His clear blue eyes met and kept mine. “Why didn’t you say good-bye?”
“Good-bye?” I repeated, fighting to control my temper as well as the inner darkness that had begun squirming with need at his closeness. “I’ve been trying to save your life.”