Future Dreams (5 page)

“Maybe more magic needs to be applied,” Loena said.

Pendon rubbed his wrinkled brow. “Something seems to have happened between the time she was enhanced and now, as far as magic is concerned.”

Leona gave Pendon an indulgent but patient look. “What do you mean, something?”

“Something that’s affected the way she reacts to magic,” Pendon said. “I got suspicious when she wasn’t reacting to the spells of unconsciousness for the hypnosis sessions. As a test I wove a couple of stinging spells to her arm and she showed no discomfort at all.”

Loena frowned. “Yet she seems to have gotten through the procedure, even without hypnosis.”

“There isn’t anything about her to indicate she isn’t ready to start interacting with other people.” Pendon pushed a hand through his white hair. “She’s still depressed but I think interacting with others will help pull her out of that.”

“You know, there are those on the Federation Council who feel she’s beyond rehabilitation and others who feel she doesn’t deserve it,” Leona said. “Even after commanding the decisive victory of the Wars, they’d rather she be locked away than rehabilitated.”

“She knows that and she agrees with them,” Pendon said. “It’s a very difficult legacy to live with.”

“If we want to get her rehabilitated and out of our care, we have to make sure she continues through the process as smoothly as possible,” Leona said. “If she turns out to be an explosion waiting to happen it’d be much better for us if that explosion happened somewhere else.”

“You don’t really think she’s beyond complete rehabilitation, do you?” Pendon asked.

“I’d like to think that anyone who’s been enhanced can be cleansed and returned safely to society.” Loena stared into her mug and then raised solemn eyes to Pendon. “But when the Federation Council went against our better judgment and recruited individuals with traits capable of producing Patch Lachlans and Tigh the Terribles, we knew there might be problems controlling and cleansing them.”

“I think she’s just more depressed than the average Guard,” Pendon said. “I mean, wouldn’t you be if you had to live with her legacy? Fortunately, she hasn’t done anything for the Council to question our decision to allow her to go onto the next step. It’s just a matter of convincing her to continue.”

They looked up at a gentle rap on the outer door of the adjoining chamber. Tigh, with a puzzled expression, stood in the corridor.

“Come in, Tigh,” Lorna said.

Tigh entered the outer room and glanced around as if trying to figure out what had happened to her office. She hovered on the threshold of the parlor and stared at the pastel colored decor where her black leather chairs and heavy wood furniture once stood.

“Have a seat. Would you like some tea?” Leona asked.

She blinked at Leona. “I’m, uh, looking for something.”

“Something that was in your office?” Loena asked.

“In the cabinet over there.” Tigh pointed to a wall occupied by shelves of books. “There used to be a cabinet.”

Loena eased up from the chair and padded to a plain wooden chest below the windowsill. “Everything was put in here.”

Tigh snapped her attention to the chest. She went to Loena’s side and looked down at it. “Thank you,” she mumbled and dropped cross-legged in front of it.

Pendon and Loena sipped their tea and watched Tigh, who stared, unmoving, at the chest for half a sandmark before venturing to open it.

Pendon was used to a number of reactions from patients faced with such tangible pieces from their lives as a Guard, but he had never witnessed the agonizing grief that shuddered through Tigh as she handled each of her treasured possessions from when she had been a Guard. He realized that Paldar Tigis actually missed Tigh the Terrible. What he didn’t know was if that meant the cleansing process had succeeded or failed.

Chapter 5

Jame smiled as they strolled from the palace into the central square. Emor looked like a willing victim of a flower explosion. Mischievous women hefted baskets full of petals of every hue off the highest balconies overlooking the square and caused blizzards of flowers on the festive women below. She laughed as Argis stoically withstood an avalanche of petals dumped on her from a pair of masked basket handlers.

Argis didn’t even have to look up to know who her assailants were. “They’re in so much trouble,” she said through clenched teeth.

Jame grinned. “Come on, Argis. What’s a festival without Tas and Mularke playing practical jokes?”

“A festival where they don’t risk being killed,” Argis said, but much of the anger was already gone from her voice.

Surprised at this, Jame realized that Argis had mellowed since her last visit. A younger Argis would have been plotting immediate revenge.

Argis shook herself like a wet dog causing the petals to fly everywhere.

Jame jumped out of the way of the colorful flurry. “Hey, if they wanted me to share, they would’ve dumped them on me.”

“They wouldn’t have dared,” Argis said with a grin. “They know that would have really made me angry.”

Jame grinned in return, not betraying the strange ambivalence she felt every time Argis took their relationship for granted. Of course, she couldn’t blame Argis since she hadn’t said anything to counter this attitude. She just wished Argis was more sensitive about it. She chuckled to herself.
Sensitive? Argis? That’s what I get for spending all my time with arbiters, who are models of sensitivity. I’ve forgotten how Emoran warriors are. Maybe that’s my problem. I need to think less like an arbiter and more like an Emoran.

Light voices, combined in harmonious tones, reached Jame’s ears from the Temple of Laur, patron deity of Emoria. Magical memories of past festivals tumbled through her mind. Not able to put two musical tones together herself, she always marveled at those who displayed the gift with such beauty and ease.

“I suppose you want to go hear the acolytes,” Argis said.

Jame caught Argis’s indulgent tone. As children, she knew Argis had endured the concert during every festival just to be with her.

Jame grabbed Argis’s arm and dragged her around the clusters of women and girls until they joined the crowd gathered in front of a dozen lavender-robed acolytes to Laur. The acolytes sang in soft tight harmonies and accompanied themselves with the rhythmic tinkling of their delicate waterfall-shaped amulets.

As she listened, Jame felt Argis shift closer until their arms touched. Argis wiggled her fingers against her own. She gave Argis a questioning look. Argis answered by slipping her fingers through hers.

The impulse was sweet and Jame should have felt something as she stared into Argis’s tender eyes. For Argis, this small gesture was a shouted declaration of her strong feelings and would produce several rounds of good-natured ribbing from her comrades if they witnessed it. She reacted to the sweetness of it and smiled at Argis before returning her attention to the singers.

Jame had forgotten how exhausting the festival could be and by evening, was more than happy to sit at one of the long wooden tables set around the square. The bright pastel tinted festivities of the day transformed into a more sensuous atmosphere as torches sputtered to life and night draped shadows across the city. Drums and flutes painted an aural backdrop to the platters of food that were hauled out of the kitchens and delivered to the women who were ready to partake in a leisurely meal after a long day of enjoying the festival.

Argis dished out stew and hunks of bread onto plates for Jame and herself, and then filled their mugs.

Jame picked up her mug and sniffed it before drinking. Expecting the usual flower-scented punch, she was surprised to find ale instead. She caught Argis’s night-darkened eyes and realized Argis had certain expectations of how the evening was to end. She also knew that, as far as everyone was concerned, she was supposed to have those expectations, too.

They’d been so wonderfully wrapped up in each other for the brief few weeks of her last visit. They had no doubt the future was theirs to share together. Why wasn’t she feeling that now? It couldn’t have just vanished like an illuminator’s trick.

She looked into the mug and took a long drink. She opened her senses and allowed the hypnotic rhythm of the music and the muted reality of night take over and decided to let her body do the thinking for a while.

TIGH STARED AT her hands as she sat in the visitors chair of what had been Patch Lachlan’s office and felt Pendon’s gaze on her. She just wished she didn’t have to make decisions. Why couldn’t she just hide out in the mountains for the rest of her life?

“We understand you’re feeling confused and lost right now,” Pendon said. “That’s natural. Once you start the next step, these feelings will fade.”

“This is the point where the Tribunal decides if I’m fit to take the next step?” Tigh slumped and clutched her head with both hands.

“It’s just a precaution.” Pendon waved a dismissive hand. “The Tribunal has to appease the Federation Council. After two years of successfully returning hundreds of Guards back to society, these hearings before the Tribunal have become little more than formalities.”

“I hear they’re divided on whether I should be allowed back out there,” Tigh said.

“One or two members of the Tribunal have a problems with everything we’re doing here,” Pendon said. “They can’t protest too loudly because of the success of our program.”

Tigh gazed at Pendon. “They have every right to be wary of me.”

“You think all you have left right now are your fighting skills,” Pendon said. “The next step will help you find your old skills or help you develop new ones.”

“I can never go back to what I wanted to be before I became a Guard,” Tigh said.

“I’d think the warrior skills and the experiences you acquired during the Wars would be invaluable for a merchant.” Pendon frowned and shuffled through a stack of papers. He picked up a sheet of finely crafted paper that Tigh recognized as her mother’s personal stationary. “Your parents feel you’ll be an asset to the family business. It was my understanding that their discussion with you about this was what helped you decide to continue with your rehabilitation.”

Not for the first time did Tigh wonder how her life had gone so wrong that she was in Patch Lachlan’s former office listening to the well-intentioned but misguided words of a healer. “I continued this process because I was unhappy with the alternative.”

Pendon fell back in his chair. “The alternative being?”

“Being locked away forever,” Tigh said.

“If you don’t want to be a merchant, what do you want to be?” Pendon asked.

Tigh studied her hands for several heartbeats. “When I was recruited into the Guards, I was preparing to enter the University of Artocia to become a scholar. My parents didn’t know about it. I was ready to run away if that was the only way to become what I wanted to be.”

Pendon stared with furrowed brow at what now was a worthless document from Pandon. Tigh suspected the neat assumptions the healers made about the Guards weren’t often so drastically challenged.

 Pendon raised his head, his usual good humor sparkling in his eyes. “You don’t have to give up that dream. As you know, many of the Guards were archivists and librarians. Several pursued quiet jobs as scribes and bards. They’ve all been successfully rehabilitated so they can return to what they were before.”

Tigh swallowed her response. Meah’s words about the healers encouraging them to join a militia or a defense group echoed through her mind. She certainly wasn’t going to let Pendon know that she was on to their self-deluding games. On the other side of the sword blade, the reason that brought her to this point in her rehabilitation still loomed over her. All she was sure of was she had to get out somehow and with her memories and guilt, she couldn’t do it on her own.

“Where do I sign?”

Pendon pushed a piece of paper, an ink jar, and pen toward her.

She scrawled her name and then fell back in the chair. “What now?”

“An arbiter argues your case before the Tribunal.” Pendon blotted the wet ink.

“An arbiter,” Tigh said. “I pity the poor soul who gets that job.”

JAME WASN’T SURE if she wanted to open her eyes or not. If the fuzz in her mouth and the rocky pitching in her stomach were any sign, opening her eyes wouldn’t improve the situation. She compromised by covering her eyes with her hand and easing them open in semidarkness. As she pulled away her hand, her head joined the chorus of discomfort.

Why did I do such a stupid thing?
She looked down at herself, sprawled in her festival clothes on her own bed, and sighed.
This is why. And it worked.

Halfway through the evening, as things got hazier and Argis much more attentive, she had figured out a way to put Argis off without offending or hurting her. Frowning a little, she tried to remember how she ended up in her room. Her intention was to be inebriated enough for Argis’s honor to prevent her from taking any kind of advantage. She rubbed her throbbing head as she tried to piece together the disjointed impressions.

“I guess I passed out or something,” she said to the ceiling. “Now I have to figure out why I put myself into this miserable state.”

The problem was, she just didn’t know how she felt about Argis anymore. She valued her friendship and enjoyed her company but whatever else had been there before, was gone.
It might only be because I’m so close to getting my arbiter’s medallion and I don’t want any distractions until I’ve achieved my goal. Surely Argis can understand that.

A wave of relief rolled through her, followed by a pounding in her head from the sound of her door opening. Moaning, she put her hand over her eyes and watched through her fingers as Jyac entered and struggled to keep away an amused look.

“I’ve got something for that little headache . . . and stomach ache and whatever else is aching,” Jyac said.

“Just aim the arrow right at my forehead,” Jame muttered. “And make it quick.”

Chuckling, Jyac padded to the bed, sat on the edge, and held out a mug. Jame sat up and took the mug. She sniffed the vapors rising up from it and almost lost what was left in her stomach from the night before.