Spider Wars: Book Three of the Black Bead Chronicles (34 page)

“
Now? You bring this up
now?” Connor asked, pinning Meshel with a pained look of horror.

“
No one asked,” Meshel
said with a shrug.

“
They cannot survive the
tumble down the Escarpment as they are.” Erin said, a faraway look
on her face. She was not afraid to let the little alien minds talk to
her in the ambient. Cheobawn smiled at Sigrid’s Alpha Ear. Erin
blinked and met Cheobawn’s eyes. “Can we hide them here long
enough for them to grow up? How big would they have to be to climb
down the cliffs without being washed away by the falls or torn to
pieces by the winds?”

Cheobawn shook her head.
“The eggs need to be hardened off under hot sand to trigger the
growth of their exoskeletons. They cannot exist as they are for much
longer.”

“
What are we going to do?”
Soral asked sadly. “We worked so hard to keep these few alive and
now it seems it was all for nothing.”

“
Oh, well,” Iroc said
with a shrug. “At least we tried.”

Cheobawn frowned at him. “I
do not think I want a species of giant bennelk-sized spiders mad at
me. Do you?” Iroc had the grace to look a little sick at the
thought.

Cheobawn turned back to
study the pond, her ignorance weighing heavy on her mind. Not for the
last time in her life, she wished for all the wisdom of the Elders
that she might see her way clear of this mess.

She lay down upon the damp
decking and leaned out over the water, letting her fingers trail in
the frigid pool. The babies called to her, tugging at her mind,
making her heart ached with their terror. They did not want to die as
the other eggs had died.

An urge that defied sanity
filled her. She wanted to turn on these two legged beings standing
behind her and kill them as a small revenge for all those deaths.
Cheobawn closed her eyes and tried to shake Spider’s children out
of her mind. Spider would not leave her.

Parlay,
Spider
whispered in her Ear.
Seek a treaty with those who wield the
power. Spiders and dome builders
have much in common. Offer
them the thing they want more than anything else.

What would that be?
She
asked but the answer was already there, an impossibly crazy idea that
seemed to hang like a beacon of light inside her brain; a two
thousand-year-old plan, laid out with meticulous care and patiently
enacted, one step at a time. The perfection of its symmetry
overwhelmed but the tenacity of Spider’s single minded focus
frightened her. She leapt to her feet and turned to stare at Ramhorn,
her heart pounding, her mouth dry. It was suicidal, this thing she
needed to do.

Connor had been waiting,
watching for any clue to the state of her mind. He groaned. He did
not like what he saw behind her eyes. Ramhorn Pack stood behind him,
their eyes full questions. “Tell us,” Connor begged, knowing
beyond a doubt that he would not like her answer.

“
We are going to do the
thing least expected,” Cheobawn said, putting more confidence in
her voice than she felt.

“
Which is?” Sigrid
asked.

“
We are going to ask
permission,” Cheobawn said.

The faces around her seemed
universally confused. Breyden was the first to break the silence.
“What does that mean?”

“
We are going to request a
Council tribunal.” Cheobawn liked the sound of those words. It
seemed right. She considered her new found friends for a moment and
then said the next thing that popped into her brain. “I will need
more than Connor as Champion at my back. I would be honored if
Ramhorn Pack stood beside me in front of the Council.”

“
By all that is gods
cursed holy,” Breyden said, looking painfully sober now, “you
want us to beard the dragons in their den? Whatever for?”

“
We are going to offer
them a deal,” Cheobawn said as she walked back up the dock, the
tall members of Ramhorn Pack parting to let her pass. Connor, who up
until that moment had been frozen in one spot staring at the dark
pond and looking like he wanted to throw up, shook himself out of his
reverie and chased after her, pushing Sigrid and Breyden out of the
way to take up his place at her left shoulder. Cheobawn let a small
smile play for a moment at the corners of her mouth. Tam had trained
his truebrother well in the art of combat. Connor, as her shield man,
knew instinctively to stay clear of her sword arm. She would carry no
sword into this battle but then swords were useless against the
Coven, whose weapons of choice were words that could bind a person
tighter than ropes or chains.

The
atrium at the top of the Temple was an inviting space, dotted with
water fountains and hidden alcoves amidst exotic potted plants and
planters full of strange and alien looking shrubbery. Ancient gnarled
trees shaped by a lifetime spent confined in too small a space stood
upon twisted roots that seemed intent on clawing their way out of the
shallow soil of their pots while their twisted canopies reached,
forever frustrated by the mini dome that curved over their heads.
Sheltered from the outer dome’s enviromatic controls, the great
room was sultry and humid. Sunlight filtered through the greenery and
bounced off the white tiled floors, chasing all the shadows away and
illuminating everything with a subtle glow. Hidden deep within the
greenery, in the center of the room, under a lazily spinning fan that
did not cool so much as remind you that you were hot, a space was
kept clear for five overstuffed chairs and a low table meant to hold
a tea service. To the uninitiated the atrium appeared benignly
benevolent.

This was a lie, of course.
Cheobawn, having sat at Mora’s feet during many a tribunal and
having watched the supplicants squirm, sweating from heat and nerves
under the laser scrutiny of the Coven, had come to believe that the
Mothers intentionally kept the climate hot and the surroundings
seductive in their beauty. The Fathers played at War down in the
plaza using every strategy they could devise. Up here, at the top of
the Temple under the apex of the greater dome, the Mothers were no
different. Every nuance of a tribunal, from the placement of the
Mothers’ chairs and the positioning of the supplicants, to the
Fathers, armed, armored, and arrayed around the edges of the room,
was meant to disconcert, disarm, and strip away the walls around a
person’s mind that they might stand naked in front of the First
Mother and speak the truth from their heart.

Cheobawn prepared her team
as best she could, recounting everything she knew from her own
experiences and from things she had overheard. Tradition ordained
exact manners and dress but there was room for creative invention
amidst the rigid formulas. Connor and Ramhorn Pack donned the soft
padded leather armor used for full contact sparring but wore little
more than thin underwear underneath to absorb the sweat. They were
all allowed ritual weapons. A pair of long knives strapped to each
thigh added the look of authority while boosting their shaky
confidence.

Cheobawn chose a plain dress
of pale green silk, the sash a nut brown – Blackwind’s colors.
The neckline of the dress drooped low around her thin frame,
revealing the black bead in her omeh for all to see. She went
unarmed; she was more than a supplicant on this day, she was a
penitent. It was time to make peace with her former nestmates. If the
Mothers wanted her to be naked, so be it. She would not fight them.

A pair of acolytes met them
in the temple foyer and escorted them through the bowels of the
temple to the lift hidden at the end of the hallway lined with
meditation rooms. The acolytes whispered a steady stream of
instructions as they walked. Cheobawn nodded politely whenever they
paused to take a breath but the rest of her team followed her
instructions and remained unresponsive.

The doors of the lift slid
silently closed around them, leaving them in silence at last.

Connor leaned in close to
whisper loudly in her left ear. “I thought you said supplicants
were supposed to walk the stairs all the way to the top of the tower
to show their devotion to the Coven.”

“
I always thought taking
the central staircase was supposed to show your willingness to
transcend your ego,” Erin said.

“
So what does taking the
lift signify? That we are on the fast track to oblivion?” Meshel
asked, a worried frown between his brows.

Sigrid laughed. “We should
be honored by this. Are we trouble makers to be called against our
will? No. We are citizens seeking advice and guidance. Our request
for an audience was not made frivolously.”

“
Or,” Cheobawn said,
“they wish to keep this meeting private, a thing they cannot do if
the entire dome sees us trudging up to the atrium in our battle
armor.”

Connor sighed. “Wow. If
that is your attempt at making us all feel better, then please stop.
I don’t think I can stand one more word of encouragement.”

“
Trust your gift, Little
Mother,” Sigrid said. The confidence in his voice made Cheobawn
feel a little better but she could not shake the feeling that the
swift ascent through the temple left her little time to gather her
thoughts. She took a long, slow, shuddering breath and tried to calm
the flutterflies in her stomach.

Long before she felt she was
ready, the doors swished open. Her heart jumped in her chest. Hayrald
stood before them, blocking their exit, Phillius, Raddoc, and Wissen
at his back – all of the Coven’s Husbands. Cheobawn bowed her
head and paused. She could feel Connor, frozen in his place at her
side, waiting for the smallest hint of her next move.

He would have been dismayed
by the confusion in her mind so early in the game. The First Fathers’
presence surprised her. Her bow was more than a show of respect. This
pause gave her time to consider the message behind the Mother’s
tactic. Only in the gravest of cases did the Coven require the full
weight of all the head Fathers to be present for a tribunal. Was it a
sign of honor or a sign of the gravity of the situation? How much did
Mora already know? How much had she already guessed? One thing was
certain. In the battle of wits, Mora had gotten off the first shot
and scored a hit.

“
The First Mother waits,”
Hayrald said. He made no effort to hide his love for her. It was
there in every note of his voice.

Cheobawn looked up into her
Da’s face and thought that the days of calling him Da were rapidly
coming to a close. Moving out of the Coven’s residence was the
first step of many that would set her towards independence. She was
no longer a child that needed to pretend the ties between her and
Hayrald were anything more than emotional bonding between two very
lonely people.

“
Thank you, First Prime,”
Cheobawn said. Hayrald’s sad smile mirrored her own. He did not
need a psionic gift to know the direction of her mind.

“
You are still an
underager,” he said, his voice rough with emotion as he leaned in
close, his words for her ears only. “No matter what the
circumstance. Stay small for a bit and give yourself a chance to grow
up.”

“
What choices are left to
me? I am as I have been made to be. I have been reminded recently
that I live on borrowed time. For that I am grateful; to you and to
the Coven. But I am not so serene that I can wait patiently for my
doom. Better to pick up the sword and step out onto the field of
battle now, than wait while my ill fated luck destroys those who
would try to keep me safe.”

Hayrald shook his head, a
stubborn set to his mouth. “It is the Elder’s duty to protect the
children against the dangers, seen and unseen. Do not forget that.”

“
How can I sit passively
at the sidelines if only I can see what threatens me?” she asked
him. Hayrald had no answer to that. She could see the pain and
confusion behind his eyes and she was sorry for that but making peace
with her Da was not on her agenda this day. She had bigger problems
to solve.

Stepping past the First
Prime, she entered the atrium, Connor and Ramhorn Pack trailing
behind her. Cheobawn did not need to look back to watch as the First
Prime and all his Fathers closed ranks behind them to block any
retreat.

The way to the center of the
atrium was not a straight line. A maze of planters, benches, and
statuary confused the senses and created a snaking path for
Cheobawn’s column of warriors. Finally, after many turns, the path
led into the central circle. Cheobawn paused there to assess the lay
of the land.

A circle of overstuffed
chairs upholstered in an eclectic array of brocade spidersilk
dominated the space before her. Unaccountably there were not five
chairs, arranged in an open ended arc but six, the sixth chair
completing the circle. What ploy was this? She had no time to puzzle
it out. Again, the Coven had surprised her, scoring one more hit at
her self confidence. Cheobawn shook off that thought. She was a
penitent. Being naked and defenseless was to her advantage. She sent
her warrior champions off with a flick of her hand. Connor, Sigrid,
and his packbrothers spread out along the edge of the circle behind
her to stand witness while Hayrald and his co-husbands emerged from
the forest of plants behind the Mothers.