A Thousand Words For Stranger (10th Anniversary Edition) (49 page)

I reached a hand to Morgan’s; this time not for comfort or help, but for my father to see. I felt Morgan’s wariness, knew he looked at me. “Stay away from him,” I said, fear making my voice loud in the silence.

“Speak with respect to His Lordship,” the lieutenant objected. Jarad waved one hand.

“My daughter, Lieutenant. Now, please clear this crowd. In fact, please clear this entire area.”

“That isn’t necessary, Jarad,” I said quickly. “We were just leaving.”

Jarad was unaffected by my feeble protest. The guards began to pull back. I readied my defenses, however futile they’d proved before, and felt Barac and Morgan do the same. Time was suspended as I searched Jarad’s implacable face and tried without success to understand him. “You asked me to trust you,” I said at last.

Jarad looked at me for the first time, his expression calm and detached. “I regret the deception, but it was necessary. You aren’t responsible for your actions, dear daughter. Just like your mother. But this isn’t the place for a discussion—there are too many ears.”

“Doesn’t bother me, di Sarc,” the crisp statement made us all turn to look up at the staircase in surprise. Armed Enforcers in full uniform lined the banister for one full swing of the spiral. Morgan nodded a greeting to Commander Bowman as she came down to our level. “But I will agree that those not involved can go.” Her smile was pleasant; the intensity of her bright eyes was anything but. Terk and a feathered creature stood at her back.

The Camosian lieutenant hesitated then backed away, signaling his underlings to continue moving spectators out of the hall. Jarad was speechless. Before he could recover the use of his tongue, Morgan stepped forward to take Bowman’s hand in a quick clasp. “Cut it a trifle fine, Commander?” I heard him say under his breath. Bowman smiled thinly.

“We’re here to protect your rights as a Sapient, Captain Morgan. Not to mention investigate your claim of Clan interference with Trading Pact species on this world.”

“You’re not authorized to interfere with me!” Jarad had recovered his voice, and backed his objection with a flare of power that made me wince. The Enforcers were unaffected; I looked at them with sudden interest. From the flicker of dismay in Jarad’s eyes, I decided he wasn’t used to this either.

“You’re wrong, Lord Jarad. I’m fully authorized to interfere when Clan affairs spill over into the lives of other species.” Bowman wasn’t the least intimidated. “Your people may scorn civilized alliances but you’ll not be allowed to abuse ours.”

Suddenly Jarad was flanked by seven white-robed figures, grim and silent. Overhead, along the banister, there was a series of soft clicks as weapons were raised, and aimed. But it was Morgan who spoke next. “No one wants a confrontation, Lord Jarad.”

“You would lose,” my father said. “Despite your toys.”

Morgan shrugged coolly. “Here and now, perhaps. But is it worth what you’d be starting?”

“What do you suggest, Human?” Sawnda’at demanded scornfully. “That we give up the work of generations, that we abandon the precious daughter of di Sarc to life as less than she was?”

“No. But I won’t let you destroy her. There must be some solution we can all accept.” I looked at Morgan out of the corner of my eye, uneasy for a different reason. He was plotting again.

Jarad smiled and bowed his head slightly. “I’m gratified by your concern for Sira, Human. You’ll be the first to agree then that we must finish what has begun for her sake—”

“Leave Morgan out of this,” I warned Jarad, taking a step forward. Morgan gripped my arm, pulling me roughly around to face him. I saw sudden comprehension widen his eyes.

“So. No wonder you didn’t tell me. They want you to finalize your Choice, don’t they? With me.”

The Councillors, Barac, the Enforcers were unimportant; it was as if Morgan and I were alone. I sighed. “Yes, that’s what they want. You removed some key to restoring the old Sira when you lifted the blockage from my mind on Plexis. That key is now here.” I touched his forehead lightly. “The Clan,” I spat the word, “want me back as one of them, and are quite willing to gamble with your life. I’m not. Sira Morgan’s enough for me.”

Jarad and Sawnda’at exchanged meaningful glances, including a quick look at the line of Enforcers, then my father coughed. “While the use—the help of this Human was our hope, we do not want any disruption of our situationhere on Camos. The Human may leave. We won’t interfere.”

Whether Bowman read the same message as I did in Morgan’s one raised brow, or was already committed to further challenging the Clan, I never learned, but regardless, the Trade Pact Commander didn’t budge. Her troops kept their weapons aimed. “Not enough, Lord Jarad. What about Sira Morgan? She’s registered crew on a Trade Pact vessel—”

Jarad’s eyes became hooded. There was a warning bite to his: “Now you interfere, Enforcer. The Clan does not recognize your authority. We are not members of your Pact. Sira di Sarc is one of us. You’d do well to remember that.”

“There’s no need for threats, Clansman,” Morgan announced nonchalantly. “I’m quite willing to undergo your Choice ceremony.”

Fool!
I sent mind-to-mind with force enough to make Morgan stagger, uncaring about eavesdroppers.
They’re trapping you with your feelings for me. I don’t need you or want you here.
That didn’t work; my feelings for Morgan flowed under the words in total contradiction.
Don’t make me destroy you. You don’t know—

Morgan’s answering mind voice was almost as violent, despite his carefully controlled features.
And you don’t know either, Sira. We must take the risk. I can’t take you from them—not without starting a bloodbath that could stretch through Human space.

My despairing
Jason!
was overlaid by the sound of Jarad’s satisfied: “So be it. We’re grateful to you, Captain Morgan.”

Although most of the exchange had been silent, Bowman was quick to draw her own conclusion. “Not so fast, Lord di Sarc,” she said, putting her hand on Morgan’s shoulder. Her blunt fingers dug in, holding him in place. “There’s a bit more to this bargaining than you realize.”

Chapter 39

I PULLED my head out of the water, then held still while Enora struggled to recapture my hair to apply more soap. Blinking bubbles from my eyes, I tried to help her. The process was slightly hysterical in nature and she was breathless, not to mention soaking wet.

Cenebar stopped his flow of instructions with an irritated snort. I shrugged apologetically, dislodging most of the locks Enora had managed to grab. “You were telling me about the cup—” I said helpfully.

The Clan Healer tugged back the edge of his robe before it slipped down into the bathtub. “It would be helpful if you tried to listen to me, Sira,” Cenebar said with unusual sharpness. His hands moved ceaselessly, betraying his own private distress.

Enora tapped the top of my head and I ducked under again obediently, hoping this meant she was finally done scrubbing. It did; she stood waiting with a large towel. The bath, and my present company, were traditions. I took their word for it.

“You’ve gone over everything twice, Cenebar,” I protested, distracted by my hair as it vibrated, then squeezed itself dry. I stepped out, Enora skimming bubbles from my skin with a towel, tsking at the space tan that began at each wrist. “None of it tells me how to help Morgan.”

Enora and Cenebar traded looks, probably sharing their exasperation. Well, I was a bit exasperated myself. I didn’t like being scrubbed like a dirty pot, even if I had been filthy. Next time I washed, it would be in a fresher stall, where the water behaved.

Cenebar bowed to me, then to Enora, vanishing before he had straightened fully. Enora gazed at me, the composed look on her face spoiled by a fluff of soap bubbles dripping down one ear. She gracefully avoided the puddles my feet had left as she gathered the white robe I was supposed to wear and turned to offer it to me. “Your mother’s,” she said to me, her voice carefully neutral.

She should have been a trader, I decided, swallowing my first impulse. “Thank you,” I said instead of “Never,” taking the robe with an inner shudder at its cold weight. I hesitated, holding it awkwardly. My emotions were awkward, too. I knew Enora wanted to comfort me, a gift I could no longer accept, however much I could have used it.

They had told me that I’d been fostered with Enora’s mother for years, that I’d attended Enora’s birthing and might have fostered her as a child in my own home had I been Chosen. Instead, I had remained frozen in time, while Enora went on to live a normal life. Once her sons had grown and left, she had offered to be my companion in exile, managing my affairs while I had buried my nose in numbers.

It was a companionship that belonged in someone else’s life. “I don’t mean to hurt you, Enora,” I told her. “I hope you know that.”

“I know,” she said gently, turning the robe to show me where my arms were to go. “Where it matters, you haven’t changed.”

I chewed on that doubtfully, giving up the effort to figure out the garment, letting her experienced hands take over and pull it past my head. “I’m not Sira di Sarc,” I mumbled into the fabric, repeated it when my face was free again.

Her hands were warm where they gripped the bare skin of my forearms for a moment. She searched my face, her own full of hope. “Don’t worry about the past. Soon you’ll be whole and complete as never before, Sira.”

I wondered which one of us had to die for that to happen: Sira Morgan, or Morgan himself.

 
Sawnda’at’s voice rolled full and rich as he intoned the first words of the Joining Ritual. “The Chooser has appeared. Bring forth the
duras,
so that all may witness.”

Cenebar had been wrong; I’d listened to him, at least between dunkings. So I knew the duras were cups containing a liquid spiked with
somgelt,
a substance that enhanced the power for a brief moment, making each partner more appealing to the other. In Cenebar’s words, somgelt’s other benefit was that it eased the rational portion of the mind away from the turmoil of Choice. Great.

A young Clansman walked up to stand before Sawnda’at, lowering his tray to show the Head of the Clan Council a pair of carved wooden cups. Yihtor’s had been exact replicas. And where had tradition gotten him?

“Witness the blending of power . . .”

I strengthened my mental shields automatically, but not because of what Sawnda’at was reciting. Someone on Council, I’d guess Faitlen, was leaking outrage again. There was little doubt Bowman and her guards were unwelcome, but a deal was a deal.

Bowman, predictably, looked perfectly comfortable, standing at ease near one wall. Her eyes were in constant motion, her attention flicking around the Council Chamber, assessing, recording, occasionally touching me where I stood beside Cenebar. I shifted from side to side, feet cold without shoes, the robe heavy and confining. Morgan—what was keeping Morgan? Maybe he’d changed his mind. Maybe he didn’t want to come after all.

“Joining lasts forever . . .”

I didn’t want to be here either. No, whispered a little, hot breath inside me, that was a lie. Not all my anticipation was fear for Morgan, was it? I shrank from the truth, then made myself follow the thought into the depths of me. I found it, felt the dark wet triumph there and recoiled. I had to have Morgan. How it was done mattered only to part of me, a part rapidly growing insignificant.

“Power seeks power through the M’hir . . .”

Bowman appeared fascinated by Sawnda’at’s litany. Probably she’d be able to repeat it word for word to her specialists afterward, which would explain her easy agreement not to carry a recorder. I wasn’t listening at all, too busy trying to remember every word of Cenebar’s lecturing. Following the somgelt came the Testing. In Clan, Cenebar had told me, the Power-of-Choice within the Chooser tried to master the power of the unChosen candidate. The battleground was the nothingness of the M’hir; the aim of the unChosen, to survive the assault of the Chooser long enough to forge a permanent path—a Joining—through the M’hir.

Morgan?
Cenebar had shaken his head. No one knew.

“And you won’t help him,” I had said then, aware that Bowman’s bargaining with the Council hadn’t included any survival guarantee. Cenebar promised to do what he could; we both knew that meant whatever Council allowed him to do. Most of them wanted Morgan conveniently dead.

A successful Testing ended with Joining, Cenebar had continued, carefully avoiding a prediction about ours. The linkage through the M’hir could only be broken by death. Having made a successful Joining, a Clanswoman entered the trancelike state during which her body would Commence, altering into its adult, reproductive form. I’d waved Cenebar past this definitely redundant part of the discussion; Enora, busy scrubbing the proof, had blushed bright pink. The physical act of mating took place when Council decreed, based upon predictions of which Clan bloodlines would produce offspring whose power would be advantageous to the whole. These predictions were based as much on guesswork as science, something most Clan had little interest in since they could do so much without technology or understanding.

Remembering that brought me back to the here and now, still not the least bit ready to consider the murky issue of mating—beyond a firm conviction that it was no one else’s business, certainly not the Clan’s. Then I forgot that, too, as the force within me surged expectantly.

“He’s coming,” I said, cutting into Sawnda’at’s speech. I looked toward the entrance way, aware of the silent, watchful Clansmen at my back.

The Council Chamber, which had been a dull, muted gray, gradually warmed to more welcoming tones of amber and blue.
Hypocrites,
I sneered, but to myself. The space on the floor at the focus of the curved Council table glowed red. My father materialized to one side of it, clothed now in the same intricate garments as the remainder of the watching Council. There was neither remorse nor sympathy in his face. His eyes were ablaze with purpose. I looked away.