Khe (14 page)

“Inra trusts you,” she says.

Surprised, I look up.

“Larta is right,” she says. “You do understand. But not everything. You can’t fathom why it’s important that we trust you. You think it’s the other way around. You’ll stay here tonight. You’ll be protected that long at least.”

“Don’t let your spots light too brightly,” Larta says. “You’ll be in a room with Mees, Inra, and Tanez, who you haven’t met yet. I’ll warn you now, Tanez sniffles in her sleep and Mees snores. You’d rest better in a beast-keep.”

Larta gets up and pulls her cloak over her shoulders. She leans over and whispers, “When you decide to start talking, don’t hold anything back from Inra. She’s an empath. She doesn’t need to see emotion spots to know your secret heart.”

Chapter Fifteen

“Inra says she’s found the one you’ve been seeking.”

--Larta, to Azlii the corentan

Marnka is singing without words, her voice playing up and down the notes like wind through leaves. Her voice alters, doubling, singing harmony with herself. That can’t be. I must be singing with her. Marnka’s voice splits again, letting her throat make three tones, and then four. I look around the bright, day-lit cave, but she is nowhere to be seen.

“Marnka,” I call out. “Why are you hiding?”

The cave goes black. I can’t see the ground I’m sitting on.

“Marnka. Don’t play tricks on me.”

***

I force my eyes open and blink in the bright light. I’m lying on a cot in a room painted light green. Inra—the one who’s an empath—stands next to the cot.

“Where is Marnka?” she asks in her gentle, prodding voice.

Where
is Marnka—not
who
. Inra leans over me. I can’t look at her. I turn my face to the wall.

“I knew Marnka the weather-prophet,” Inra says. “Is she the Marnka you called for, or another with the same name?”

I keep my head turned and say nothing.

“They told us Marnka the Prophet had died in an accident,” Inra says. “The entire kler turned out to celebrate her unexpected Returning. I never believed it myself.”

I wonder if Inra and Marnka had been friends or if Inra’s talk is a deceit meant to start my tongue moving. I lie still, as though I haven’t heard her.

Inra sighs. “No matter. You and I have other things to worry about. First, a cleaning. You’ll feel better after.”

The blanket covering me is pulled away. Rolling over, I snatch it back and glare at her.

“We need to go while the hatchlings are on the upper levels at their lessons” Inra says. “We can’t let them see you. They’re too likely to let the wrong word slip if an inspector comes around.”

I ease off the blanket. I must have slept like the Returned. My cloak, foot casings, and hip wrap have been taken from me, and I never knew it.

Inra’s shod feet and my bare ones thud and pad as I follow her out and down a long hall to the cleaner. At Lunge we had a large room for cleaning that several units visited together, not a small chamber like this, only big enough for one. I lean against the smooth white stone while the sound waves do their work. I close my eyes and stay in the chamber long after I’m clean, until Inra’s voice blares through the door.

“I’ve brought you a fresh wrap and foot casings.”

I shoulder the door open, thinking I can’t keep mute forever, wondering when and how to break my silence.

“We couldn’t salvage your old clothing,” Inra says as I step out from the chamber.

The fabric she holds out is beautiful—dark blue with a design of tiny gold fedephloc blooms and red seedpods. I wrap the soft fabric around my hips. It feels like wearing feathers.

Inra hands me a pair of foot casings in the same dark blue as the wrap. The thick, quilted winter casings are knee high and hard-soled. Guilt pricks at me. Someone has given up these fine things so that I might wear them. I wonder if they are Inra’s, since we are about the same size.

“The clothing is assigned to Tanez,” Inra says. “She wanted you to have them. Are you hungry? There’s food waiting.”

I don’t know who Tanez is. I nod, and we go down the hallway to the little communiteria.

The room is as spotless as before. I wonder if the hatchlings eat here or somewhere else. So much in Chimbalay is different from Lunge. I don’t know the rules in this place.

Inra fills two bowls with kiiku porridge from a large pot, then hands me a bowl and spoon. I take them and sit at the table on the same pillow where I’d sat the night before. Inra takes her same place, across from me.

The room is quiet, as though the building is deserted except for the two of us. The quiet makes me nervous, as if it’s pressing on me. Inra seems content to eat her meal, but I know she’s watching me, judging. I keep my head down, my eyes focused on the porridge, and eat. My bowl is nearly empty when Inra sets down her spoon and stares at me until I’m forced to acknowledge her attention.

“Larta tells me she followed you for a long while yesterday,” she says.

I try not to show the small triumph I feel—the shadow
was
there. I didn’t imagine it.

“Larta thought at first that you were from the corenta, one of Azlii’s crew who’d lost her way or grown curious about the kler,” she says. “Are you from the corenta?”

She waits for me to answer, as though she won’t speak again until I do and doesn’t mind if it takes days. My mind whirls, wondering if this is the moment to break my silence. Wondering, too, if it’s usual for doumanas from the corenta to come into the kler. Corentans never came to Lunge. Simanca kept us safe from that danger, at least.

Inra’s spots glow dark-lavender, the color of speculation, then fade. The silence stretches out, filling the room like smoke.

At last Inra says, “Larta changed her mind after she’d followed you awhile. She brought you here because she judged that you’d escaped from the research center.”

Inra’s hands rest on the table, her fingers stretched out flat. Her black eyes lock onto my own. I can almost feel her reaching into me, looking for the truth. I search back, for
her
truth. Why did Larta, thinking I’d come from a research center, bring me here?

“Would you like something to drink?” Inra asks.

I nod, and she gets up from the table, returning with a white clay pitcher and two glass cups. She fills both cups with a red liquid that I guess is awa juice, then slides one towards me. I lift my glass and sip. The light, sweet juice isn’t awa or anything I can identify.

Inra takes a tiny sip and sets the glass down. “It must be hard, now that you’ve been silent for so long, to find the best moment to speak. Would you like to tell me what happened to you?”

I look down at the table. I don’t want to tell these doumanas anything until I know more about them.

The sound of footsteps coming toward the room makes my muscles tense.

Larta, Mees, and a new doumana enter the room. The stranger is tall, much taller than I am, taller than Larta who is taller than me. The hood of her cloak is drawn tightly around her face. I catch only a glimpse of light red-brown skin and pale eyes. Her neck is hidden. She loosens the drawstrings of the hood, slips it back and settles onto a pillow next to Inra. She settles down with ease, but I think that she doesn’t live in this dwelling. More like a guest who’s come so often that she feels at home. Her eyes are a light brown, almost yellow. She gazes at me like one might look over a newborn preslet to judge its quality. I don’t like the way her lips draw back, as though I’m less than she expected.

Mees’s voice comes from behind my shoulder. “Do you know her?”

The stranger tsks her tongue against the roof of her mouth.

“She hasn’t spoken at all,” Inra says.

“Can she speak?” the stranger asks. Her voice is deep and confident, like Simanca’s.

“I believe so,” Inra answers. “She chose silence as a shield when Larta found her. She’s not ready to lay down her protection.”

Mees sits on one side of me. Larta takes the pillow on the other. I feel penned in, hardly able to breathe. The stranger stares at me with a cold, sharp gaze. I reach for my glass and take a sip of the red liquid. Four sets of eyes follow my movements.

“Maybe she has good reason to protect herself,” the stranger says. “Or maybe silence is what the Powers ordered.”

“The Powers didn’t send her,” Inra says so quietly that I hardly hear her.

The stranger doesn’t seem to hear at all. She keeps her eyes on me.

“I don’t believe you’ve escaped from the research center,” the stranger says, and watches for my reaction.

I look down at the bowl in front of me. Dried porridge sticks to its rim.

With a quick movement, the stranger sends the bowl flying off the table with the back of her hand. The bowl skitters across the floor, clangs against the wall and shatters into pieces.

“Why were you wandering in Chimbalay?” the stranger demands.

I stare at the inquisitor.

“I think that you are a new kind of spy,” she says. “A spy fixed in the research center so that the shame of lies doesn’t show on your neck. Fixed so well that even an empath can’t feel your treachery.” She leans toward me. “Is that what you are—a new abomination?”

My mind whirls. Whose spy do they think I am? What are they doing that would bring them trouble if others knew about it? What would they do to ensure their safety?

The stranger leans back on the pillow, lacing her fingers together in front of her chest. Her voice has turned to the sound of one giving friendly advice. “If you have any hope of saving yourself, you’ll start talking. And telling the truth.”

I want to speak, but can’t. My mind tumbles like a rock knocked loose on a hillside. I’m frightened, but I see that the stranger is frightened, too. What do these doumanas fear?

“Azlii,” Inra says, “leave her be. She doesn’t know what you’re talking about.”

Inra turns to me. “Sometimes corentans can seem harsh to outsiders.”

If Azlii is an example of what corentans are like, no wonder Simanca hated to be among them.

Azlii pays no attention to the apology Inra’s offered on her behalf. “She’s not a babbler, is she?”

Inra draws in a breath. “She’s not a babbler like any we’ve housed.”

I see their secret. There are babblers who weren’t sent from the kler. Some escaped. If these doumanas are hiding babblers here, it’s no wonder they fear a silent stranger.

Azlii leans towards me. Her voice is as sharp as a knife’s edge. “Who are you? Where do you come from?”

I stare back at her and manage to keep my voice calm. “My name is Khe. I come from Lunge commune.”

Azlii glares at me, but Larta and Mees look to Inra.

“She’s telling the truth,” Inra says.

“Unless—” Azlii begins.

Inra tsks her tongue against the roof of her mouth. “I feel that she was in a research center, but long ago and not in Chimbalay.”

“I was in Morvat,” I say.

“When?” Azlii asks.

“Eight years back.”

Her almost-yellow eyes widen. “For Resonance restoration?”

I nod. The orindles at Morvat were proud of their early success and hosted two vision-stage presentations about them.

“Were you one of the ones with new talents?” Azlii asks.

I don’t know how Azlii knows about this; it wasn’t part of the presentations. The orindles wanted to keep the side effects secret.

I don’t know what to say. If I tell them about my ability, they might be more tempted to turn me over to the Powers or the orindles than if I’m ordinary. I’d come here seeking the orindles. Now I’d just as soon wait a while before meeting them. But, if these doumanas hide babblers, my ability might make them more willing to hide me, too.

“I will answer your questions,” I say. “Will you answer mine in return?”

Inra, Mees, and Larta turn to Azlii, which tells me it’s the corentan who makes the final decisions among them.

“That depends on the questions,” Azlii says evenly.

“Is this place a haven for babblers?” I ask.

“No,” Larta says.

“Tell her,” Azlii says.

Larta shoots Azlii a hard look. If there is something illegal happening in this house, Larta the guardian wouldn’t want her participation known.

Azlii stares back calmly. Larta hitches up one shoulder in a shrug.

“From time to time a babbler wanders away from the research center. Once or twice I’ve come across them while making my rounds. Mees let the babblers stay here until someone came to retrieve them.

Retrieve
. Spirited away, I think, though the guardian has tried to make it sound otherwise.

“How did a doumana from Lunge commune come to be in Chimbalay?” Azlii asks. All the doumanas in the room focus their attention on me, except Inra who closes her eyes.

I tell them. They listen. The whole time I’m talking, Inra never opens her eyes.

When I finish, Inra keeps her eyes shut.

“I’ve told you my tale,” I say. “I’d like to know the same about all of you.”

Mees straightens an already perfect pleat in her hip wrap. “We might as well tell her. She’ll need to know some of it at least, and probably sooner rather than later.”

“The less she knows the better,” Larta says. “She’s a risk to us.”

Inra opens her eyes, but says nothing.

“Larta’s right,” Azlii says. “This wandering doumana is more a threat than a gift, I think. She knows enough already to be a danger to us. However, if she knows more, she may turn out to be an asset. If not—” Her shoulders hitch up.

Chapter Sixteen

To show respect to the creator, obey your leader.

--The Rules of a Good Life

Soumyo
is a word hardly anyone uses. It names our species and means all the doumanas and males combined. Since male and female live apart, there’s little reason to use a word meaning both, except when new laws come down that affect us all. But Azlii uses that word now.

“In the Before,” Azlii says, leaning her back against the wall behind the bright green pillow she sits on, “there were soumyo, no different in looks from us, but very different in their way of living. They didn’t live their whole lives in one place, the way kler and commune dwellers do. They lived like corentans, in communities that traveled the planet freely. And like corentans now, the soumyo were in harmony with the walls that sheltered them, and the plants and beasts that fed and clothed them. They lived as part of a sentient whole.”