Ties of Power (Trade Pact Universe) (11 page)

“Morgan,” I protested firmly, if faintly, “would never abandon me. You know that, Rael. And these people, primitive or not, have shown me far more goodwill than any others of recent memory. Morgan trusts them, and so do I.”

“Then where is he?”

“Where I sent him.” For an instant, my eyes saw nothing but a whirling darkness, then I refocused on Rael’s face with an effort. I studied her features: the strong cheekbones and delicate line of jaw so like our mother’s and unlike mine; the look of an aristocrat, accustomed to power and control, despite the tendency of her lips to quiver and her eyes to darken, as now, when distressed. Her lustrous black hair, longer tamed than mine, still seethed restlessly over her shoulders. A passionate Clanswoman, sure of her place and our kind, and, I knew, someone who would agree completely with my loosing Morgan against my enemies—regardless of the risk to his life.

More than agree, I said to myself, guarding the thought behind my own shields. Rael would see my actions as proof I was finally recovering my senses and returning to what I was born—a member of the Clan, the M’hiray. For my sake, she had tolerated Morgan and reluctantly accepted that my feelings for him existed. Equally, for my sake, she’d be overjoyed to think I’d use him, treat him as Clan had treated Humans since our species first met. If he died in my service, freeing me from Human contamination, so much the better.

Oh, I knew how she’d react, how any of them would. I shifted carefully in my seat, trying unsuccessfully to find a more comfortable spot among the blankets and my own thoughts. I knew exactly what it meant to be Clan, which was why I had chosen exile.

“Morgan will be back,” I stated out loud, before Rael said something I wouldn’t be able to forgive, no matter how true it might be.

Brief alarm in her eyes and thoughts, rippling the M’hir. In my weakness, I must have let some of my own emotions trickle through. Then she confused me, saying: “Soon, I trust.”

Her shields were in place; keeping out my emotions or keeping in her own? “You surprise me, Sister.”

“How so?” A too-innocent look from green eyes unused to secrecy. “You won’t listen to reason. Maybe you’ll listen to your Human and seek proper medical care. It’s the least he can do after last night.”

“You know what happened here, Rael,” I leaned forward, clutching my middle, feeling my hair lashing my cheeks. “Morgan saved my life—”

“Really? After endangering it!” The M’hir was locked from us both, but her anger was plain. “You’re right—I know what happened here. Do you?”

“I’m in no mood for riddles, Rael,” I warned her.

“Who knew you were here?” she snapped. “Who was supposed to protect you? Oh, I know how Morgan engaged in a drunken brawl, leaving you defenseless—distracted! How convenient! What was your Human paid for his service?”

All that saved Rael’s life in that moment was my weakness. I had no mercy, no compassion left in me, only blinding fury, but the power I could slam against her shields was barely enough to widen her eyes with pain and fear.

It was enough to open the smallest of cracks, to let me reach her mind and surface thoughts. I hadn’t intended such an invasion—I wasn’t sure what I’d intended, beyond striking back—but suddenly I was there.

Almost instantly, Rael thrust me out. We stared at one another, both breathing in heavy gasps. I found it hard to focus until I blinked fiercely, feeling hot moisture trail down my cheeks. What I read then on her expressive face wasn’t righteous indignation or anger—it was guilt.

“You aren’t here to see me, to help me,” I heard myself say incredulously. “You were sent to find out what lies between Morgan and me—to experiment on us—to learn how I controlled the Power-of-Choice. You came . . .” my voice failed me, then I knotted my hands into fists and found it again. “How dare you accuse Morgan! You came to steal what I wouldn’t give the Clan!”

“No! Ossirus as my witness, Sira. No!”

“Yes, Rael. Yes and yes!” I stood, somehow, staggering back, desperate to put more distance between us. “You want Morgan here so that you can take us both to the Council. A nice, tidy package. Well, I’ll never let you have him, do you hear me, Rael? Never!”

“Sira, wait!” Rael pleaded, standing and coming toward me. “Please listen. Read my thoughts. I’ll open to you. You’re wrong!”

There are moments when need transcends strength, when one reaches inward and finds what is necessary can be done after all, no matter the cost.

As Rael dropped her shields, driving her thoughts toward mine for whatever reason, I concentrated. She was quite capable of following where I went: her particular Talent, M’hir tasting, let her identify and track Clan power through that other space. But there were ways around it. With a whispered apology to Morgan as I broke at least part of my vow to him, I pushed . . . .

. . . and was adrift in utter darkness. Lines of brilliant power shimmered and crossed, enticing and beautiful. Most I’d created, spun during journeys on this world. Others traced well-worn routes between Morgan and me, as I’d sought out his presence in the M’hir to test and train his power. I held myself free of any of them, holding all I was together in the nothingness, holding until I began to fray at the edges and still I waited. My mind wandered, losing all fear, almost lost.

At the edge of my own existence, I saw—or imagined—a distant brilliance, a path once so wide and great its passing burned an echo in the M’hir itself. I lingered in this timeless place to wonder at it: had I stumbled across what remained from the exodus of the M’hiray, a legacy of that passage forged by the merged power of my kind? Or was there some other power out there—something unimaginable, something greater . . . ?

I caught myself thinning, dissolving, lured toward it.

Morgan . . .

His name became the only anchor left.

The Watcher stirred.

There were others holding vigil here, connected by the most tenuous of links, valued for their endurance and commitment.

Theirs was the most sacred task of any Clan: to taste the messages reflecting through the M’hir, to warn of any intrusion, to guard against contamination.

To watch.

This Watcher had tasted many things in the M’hir over the long years. Most had been the threads of energy left by Clan as they pushed themselves, their thoughts, or objects from one place to another, some the fierce brilliance traced by the temporary links between mother and offspring, the longer-lasting ones between Joined pairs, each fading into the network of pathways which those of lesser strength used as they journeyed. A few had been the danger they all sought, flickering touches tasting of metal and technology, everything feared and loathsome to the Clan. And speedily dealt with, whenever found.

This taste was familiar, yet not; recognized, yet momentarily disbelieved. The flavor of the daughter of di Sarc waned as though fading, dissolving in the M’hir—impossible in one so powerful.

The Watcher prepared her message. It was her duty to inform of loss in the M’hir, not to prevent it. The death of Sira di Sarc must be announced to the one on Council most affected: the head of her House, Jarad di Sarc. Sira’s loss would mean changes to his plans; Clanlike, that he was Sira’s father mattered not at all. What concerned Jarad, as it would any Clan, was power, its existence and potential. The loss of Sira meant the loss of her doubtless gifted progeny, should any Clansman at all be found her match.

Such things were not the concern of Watchers.

Wait.

At the limits of possibility, coalescence into form, survival.

The message was shunted to memory, unsent. The Watcher turned her attention elsewhere, vigilant and unsleeping.

Chapter 9

. . . I ALLOWED myself to materialize. Rael was no fool—even if she traced my path, she’d know she could never last so long in the M’hir. I almost hadn’t, despite Morgan’s memories of this place. Shaking my thoughts free of the journey, I staggered and reached one hand to hold on to the smooth pink wall. Pink?

“Greetings, Mystic One.”

I peered down at the two identical Drapsk in front of me, their plumes fluttering, but otherwise not obviously surprised to see me. “I’ve decided to accept your invitation after all,” I announced, finding it strangely difficult to catch my breath. “If you still want a Mystic One to bring home.”

More fluttering, this time accompanied by a loud sucking noise as both Drapsk inhaled most of their mouth tentacles. “Wonderful, wonderful,” they said together, having exhaled the tentacles. “We’ll take you to our Captain.”

“. . . med-tech? . . .” I countered, unsure if I managed that aloud, knowing the cost of my journey through the M’hir as a warm wetness grew under the fingers still pressed to my belly and I began sinking to the floor.

You’ll never find Morgan, Rael, was my last conscious thought. Not while I live.

 

I hadn’t planned to stay on the Drapsk ship a moment longer than it took to regain the strength to leave, to follow Morgan, and elude Rael. While this was a schedule I didn’t share with my new hosts, it was also, according to the Drapsk med, one I was unlikely to keep.

“How long do I have to stay in there?” I eyed the med unit with a sinking feeling. Surreptitiously, I tried stretching my abdomen and felt only a sensation of tightness. Of course, the Drapsk had dosed me thoroughly with pain medication after replacing the blood-soaked medplas. The being had been reassuringly confident about dealing with humanoid physiology—something I took on faith. “Are you sure I need this?”

The Drapsk, whose appearance differed from the Captain’s only in the diagnostic scope dangling from a lower mouth tentacle, rocked back and forth with a pleased croon. “Quite sure, O Mystic One. As for how long, I must observe how well you respond. Perhaps only a few hours. Perhaps a day or two. Are you ready?”

I glanced around the room; if there were any answers or signs here, they were well-hidden. Except for the med unit and the scope the Drapsk held, I could be anywhere on the Drapsk ship, the Makmora. Her appearance might have been deliberately designed to fool the senses—humanoid senses, at least, I corrected to myself. Her pale pink interior lacked any marks or variation. Both corridors and rooms were softly lit, either for my benefit or because the Drapsk possessed vision despite their lack of obvious eyes.

There was little to see. Any equipment, including the ominous rectangle of the med unit and its cocoon, was lodged inside cupboards until needed, cupboards with doors that only showed when a Drapsk activated them. I thought of the med’s infirmary as a room for my own reference, but it, like others I’d passed on the way here, was more as though the walls of the corridors cooperatively bulged at random to allow floor space for clusters of Drapsk activity.

Forget privacy. More than a dozen Drapsk had quietly passed by during the med’s examination and treatment of me, on their way to tasks elsewhere. Each gave a dip of their feathery purple antennae my way, either polite acknowledgment or curiosity.

Mystic. I looked down at the Drapsk’s blank globe of a face, unable to keep a frown from my own. “You must know from your scans of me that—”

“You are not a Ram’ad Witch?” The being’s fleshy red tentacles blossomed out in a ring that could mean polite disagreement, personal affront, or an extreme of joy, its right hand ready to catch the scope as it came free in what looked like a reflex. I wished I’d paid more attention to Morgan’s vistapes on the species, then realized I was likely wrong on all counts when the Drapsk tipped his plumes to softly stroke the back of my hand—a gesture I did know meant profound gratitude. “Drapsk know the true nature of things, Mystic One. The Ram’ad Witches are a lie accepted by their kind. You, as all on this ship know for truth, are a rare and magical being, forced to coat your power with that lie in order to survive.”

A touch melodramatic, but closer to the reality of my life than I liked. I hesitated as the Drapsk indicated the cocoon with one small hand, not ready to relinquish consciousness just yet. “How do you sense this truth about me, Med?”

“Oh, the Scented Way holds the truth, Mystic One.”

Huido Maarmatoo’kk, Morgan’s huge Carasian friend and now mine, used a sense he called smell to detect a being’s grist, a characteristic with a confusingly vague resemblance to what I would sense as Talent. I was reasonably certain what he meant had nothing in common with mammalian olfaction, but Huido could tell quite remarkable things about those with mental abilities. Not bad for a creature whose thoughts registered as a painful maelstrom to even a cautious touch. Perhaps these odd little Drapsk possessed a similar sense. Great, I said to myself with disgust, glaring at the oh-so-helpful med. So much for secrets among this lot. Caution would be in order until I knew more.

But first came a rare amount of trust. I looked at the cocoon and sighed, then let the Drapsk help me recline on its surface. His antennae drooped toward me with a slight quiver, as though the Drapsk relied on his own senses as much as the scope in his hand. Lying back left me short of breath, a symptom I couldn’t very well dispute. The Drapsk med had been equally convincing. While he couldn’t say exactly what had been done to me, not knowing how Clan physiology differed from humanoid standard, he confirmed someone had performed surgery on my reproductive organs. I must allow my body to heal or pay the price.

As the price was remaining vulnerable and of no use to Morgan, I had no choice. When the lid came down and servo-handling arms bestirred themselves with a most alarming number of needlelike points interested in my anatomy, I ordered myself to stop trembling. It would only be a safe, undisturbed rest. My mental shields did not need my conscious direction to keep me hidden from prying Clan. Warm gel began pooling along my bare skin.

“Will I dream?” I asked the med, perhaps a confusing question. I didn’t know if Drapsk dreamed or, come to think of it, if they slept.