"Who secures," the agent repeated, "the Department of the Interior?"
It was useless to fight. He grappled with his thoughts, trying to remember just what it was he must not allow, and heard himself murmur, through a mile of fog, "The commander secures the Department of the Interior."
His body continued of its own momentum; he paid it as little heed as the lessening distance between himself and the man who asked these tiresome, tiring questions.
"Who secures the commander?" his interrogator demanded.
"The agents," Val Con's voice told him. "The agents secure the commander."
The man before him smiled. "With what do the agents secure the commander?"
"With actions, and with blood."
"When the commander calls you to duty," the man demanded, the High Tongue knelling like a death-bell, "what do you say?"
Val Con's body twisted silently in the dance; he came to a point of fulcrum and smiled peacefully upon his questioner. "
Carpe diem."
The words were like bright sun, burning away the fog. In the instant of answering, he recognized the
L'apeleka
dance named "Accepting the Lance;" recalled that the one giving ground before him was an enemy; recalled that there had been another answer to the last question, an answer that had made no sense. Miri had given him the proper answer—the true answer—and he had danced it into place in Hakan's barn . . .
"Val Con yos'Phelium," the agent cried. "try clare qwit—"
The cycle went faster that time: Again he was shackled; compelled to reply, mind slowly clouding while his body relentlessly repeated the pattern of "Accepting the Lance."
When the commander calls you to duty," the agent snarled, "what do you say?"
"Carpe diem!"
Val Con cried; and the dance described acceptance while the agent's hand flicked toward his pocket and Val Con loosened the throwing blade.
The knife struck the enemy high in the chest, close to the throat, and bounced away with a hollow
thunk
as the man brought his gun around.
Val Con dove and rolled in the narrow confines of the booth; he jackknifed and kicked the other's legs out from under him. The man used his fall to advantage, coming up on his knees, gun steady. As Val Con braced himself to leap, the Loop calculated the angle that would permit the greatest chance of nonfatal injury.
"Val Con?" The voice was in his very ear, instantly recognized, dearly loved, and absolutely impossible. Before him, the agent held his fire.
"Surrender and accompany me of your own will," he said. In his ear Shan's voice was worried, insistent: "Val Con!"
He lunged.
The agent fell badly, gun spinning out of his hand, head striking solidly into the thick wooden wall. The man was moving again, instantly, throwing himself over the weapon—but Val Con was already out the door and running.
Beyond the depot, half a mile closer to Gylles, Miri shuddered, stopped, and stiffened, head up, questing inside herself: Val Con's pattern was—
wrong.
Even as she watched, the colors dimmed, and several major interlockings shuddered as if under insupportable strain. Directional sense wavered, failed for an instant—then the whole structure was back as it should be: bright and strong and sane.
She relaxed, then stiffened as the cycle began once more; watching the colors dim, she spun back, terror for him overcoming dread for herself and loathing of the plastic envelope in her pocket.
"Dammit, Val Con!"
He slammed around the side of a food hall, glued his back to the wooden support, and whispered, "Shan?"
"Where the devil are you?" demanded the voice in his ear—in his head—bringing with it a static crackle of concern/annoyance/determination/love.
"The Winterfair," he whispered, craning to catch sight of the enemy among the thronging midway. "Where are you?"
"The
Passage.
Give your coords, approximate local fix—"
"No!" Val Con cried. He shrank back, biting his lip. "Shan, you must not come here! There's appalling danger—"
"Plan B!" Shan's thought-voice overrode him. "Speak to me of danger, do!" Frustration, full anger, and not a little fear were added to the static pummeling him, and Val Con pushed hard against the wall, closing his eyes in an agony of emotion.
"Don't . . ." he whispered, though the snow wind tore the word from his lips. "Brother—beloved—I cannot go mad just today."
Abruptly the punishment ceased and was replaced before his knees began to buckle with a steadfast bone-warming glow. Val Con drew a hard breath against his brother's love and began to murmur again to the wind. "There is a man with a gun who will have me dead, and my lifemate is not with me. I've no time to argue points of melant'i with you! Stay clear—stay safe . . ."
"We need you." There was a wealth of emotion attending that, mercifully damped to shadow.
"The gunman has a ship," Val Con murmured. "Must have a ship! If the luck is willing, it is ours."
Warmth faded to coldness; the inner ear perceived an echoing vastness . . .
"Shan!"
Warmth solidified. "Here. Running close to the time—uses too much energy. Assume the ship—what then?"
"I'll take Miri to her people. Meet us—" In the midway crowd he glimpsed a familiar leather jacket on a man much shorter than average. The man checked, turned his head to the left, then to the right, and came confidently toward the corner of the food hall.
"Go!" Val Con cried to his brother, and—
pushed
—with his mind. Vastness roared, emptily; then Val Con was slipping silently down the wall, toward the dim back of the building.
Shan rolled and snapped to his feet, hand outstretched toward that last horrific vision: a man stalking purposefully toward him/Val Con, the outline of the gun clearly visible beneath his coat.
"He was right there, Priscilla! I saw him! Gods—" He spun back toward the bed, confounded by his familiar room aboard the
Passage
—and then hurled himself forward, horror filling him completely.
Priscilla was not breathing.
What by all the gods could have made the man bolt like that?
Miri leaned against a rack of skis, breathing hard and trying to track him. His pattern was steady at the moment and seemed rooted in one spot, a real relief after the crazy zigzagging and dodging he had been doing for the past ten minutes. She squared her shoulders and set out again, keeping her pace down to jog now that she was back among other pedestrians. All the hell clear across the fair. If that just wasn't like his wrong-headedness! Why hadn't he run
toward
her, if he was running from trouble? No sense to have—
She swallowed hard, remembering the envelope of Cloud in her pocket; remembering the Liaden who had given it to her. Gut feeling said that Val Con was running from the Liaden—except that didn't make sense at all. Nothing about the whole setup made sense, but it suddenly looked like a good idea to get to Val Con and face whatever was after him, back to back. After that—she squashed the thought. Ain't any "after that," Robertson, she told herself harshly. Get used to it.
Grief threatened to strangle her; instead, she put her attention back onto his pattern—and slammed to a halt, a cry caught in the knot of grief in her throat.
Someone pushed into her, cursing; she moved until she came up against a wall and put her hands against it, fingers digging into the wood, eyes staring straight ahead, seeing only within.
His pattern flickered, danced, expanded, distorted, all seen through a shroud of swirling flame and color. The flames drew in upon themselves briefly, then expanded and remained constant for a moment. The pattern seemed as if it were going to fade altogether—
did
fade . . .There was a touch, like a cold kiss upon her cheek . . .
And Val Con was gone.
"No . . ." It was a whimper, short nails scoring hardened wood. "No!" she cried again in a burst of anguish as she slammed her head against the wall and thrust her whole self into the void where his pattern had been a heartbeat before; she went through that space and out, so it seemed, to a place of flailing wind and burning ice-falls and a woman's voice crying out despairingly, as Miri reeled and went to her knees on the frozen ground.
Swallowing against nausea, steeled for silence and emptiness, she probed the place. And swallowed suddenly against joy.
He was back: whole, scintillant, sane. Alive.
"Alive," Miri whispered, she climbed to her feet, rubbing her forehead where she had hit it against the wall.
Shakily she got her bearings and, walking steadily, she set out to find him.
"Priscilla!"
Empty. A void where her mindsong should be—and the failing glow of the autonomic system.
Healer training took over, forcing the horror he felt out of consciousness, forcing his attention to the details that made up life. No breath; no heartbeat; autonomics fading to nothing even as he scanned . . .He needed a medic! But there was no time to call: Priscilla's body would be dead before Vilt could hope to get there from sickbay.
Terror lashed him, but was shunted aside as he lay his hand on her cooling breast; he grabbed and molded that terror in a way he had never been taught—and released it in a bolt of mind-searing energy.
He went to his knees with the shock of it; feeling the heart flutter beneath his hand, he began the sequence: press, release, press, release. The body caught the rhythm, lost it, caught weakly—and steadied. Breath began raggedly; the autonomic system glowed to full capacity. Shan withdrew his assistance, watching breathlessly as the body lived on without it.
He dragged himself to his feet, casting with Healer's senses for the thread that had anchored Priscilla to her body.
There was nothing—no strand, no echo of emotion. Priscilla was gone, as if she had never been.
Horror rose again, and he welcomed it, using the energy to cast his Seeking wider, touching over the patterns of all who remained within the
Passage,
searching for a hint, for a memory, for a chord that was Priscilla.
Lina's pattern held him longest, and then Gordy's—but Priscilla had not fled to her friend or to her foster son, and Shan sought further, opening himself as he had never done, reading as he knew he could not . . .
There! An echo, a glow of recall, a familiar, warm touch of comfort.
Following the hint, Shan encountered a scattering of human patterns, the random buzz that was the pattern of lower animals, the near-cogent hum of the norbears—the Pet Library, Priscilla's first refuge aboard the
Passage,
nearly eight Standards earlier. He narrowed his scan, searching minutely, and found her at last, hugged tight within the devoted, comforting pattern of Master Frodo, king of the norbears.
Recklessly Shan expended energy and found himself for a disorienting heartbeat not nearer the norbear and his beloved, but back in his body, slumped over Priscilla's, head pillowed on a breast that gently rose and fell, as if in sleep.
"No!" He wrenched himself away, and fled back toward the Pet Library, homing in on Master Frodo's pattern.
He extended a tendril of affection toward the tiny empath and received the usual happy greeting; but the creature's joy was somewhat mixed with puzzlement, so that he fed out, too, a line of comfort to the norbear before seeking Priscilla herself.
She was wrapped tightly behind an intense shield, reinforced at several points by the norbear's natural defenses.
Shan came as close as he dared, trying to recall exactly how he had bespoken Val Con, then once again expended energy and thought of calling her name.
Priscilla!
The surface of her shield shimmered, a wisp of pattern escaping; then more slipped out, displaying recognition, quickly followed by dismay, fear, and love. He returned love, comfort, and security; he tried again to bespeak her, to urge her to leave Master Frodo's protections for his own, but she gave no sign that she heard.
Gently, infinitely patient, he kept sending love, comfort, and security, paying out a Healer's line of rescue, and finally he felt her first tenuous grip on the line strengthen and grow certain.
He ignored the strain and payed the line out, feeling her shed defenses, hesitate, and stand away from Master Frodo's shield, exposing the kernel of her being to the void.
Shan
reached
in some indefinable way, encircled his beloved, and shook them both loose of Master Frodo's influence.
He reentered his body with a suddenness that was agony, and Priscilla seemed to join him there for a moment before she fled, pouring across the physical link of their bodies until, with a shocking break, she left his awareness.
Vilt had come and gone, after administering vitamin shots and a very sound scolding for whatever it was that they had done to make each of them shed so much weight, so quickly. While he was scolding Shan, Priscilla had called Lina and asked her to go to Master Frodo with an extra ration of corn; then she had ordered two complete dinners to be delivered immediately to the captain's office.
The dinner itself was gone and Priscilla was sitting next to Shan on the couch, head resting on his shoulder as she thought about what he had told her. Finally she sighed and stirred, sitting up to look into his silver eyes.
"Shan?"
"Yes, Priscilla?"
"Why didn't you go to the Wizard's College in Solcintra?"
Surprise flickered. "Because I'm not a dramliza, Priscilla; I'm a Healer."
"Yes, but you see," she said, very gently, "Healers can't do the things you've been telling me
you've
done—that I know you've done, as I sit here in body before you! And no wizard that I know of—or witch, either—can speak directly, mind to mind."
He frowned. "Nonsense. You yourself left a dream with Val Con's lady—and she replied!"
"Yes, of course. But neither of us spoke
directly
to the other. Think how much easier it would have been, if that was a common sort of ability. Anthora might have spoken to Val Con months ago, relaying Nova's order to come home!"