To Trade the Stars (25 page)

“Symon?” echoed Ansel, his face contorted with stress. Words kept pouring out of him.
“Imde la!
He wants the child. Huido
makesdi la
Ruti.
V! Amasdin ef v lavde!
Your safe place. He knows! I couldn't keep him out. I couldn't keep him out. He knows!” With that final shout, Ansel's body convulsed, eyes rolling upward so only the blood-red showed. Morgan wrapped his arms around the shuddering form, doing his best to hold and protect his old friend.

Until it no longer mattered.

“Morgan. Morgan, wait!”

“Later, Terk,” Morgan snapped, somehow not surprised to find the Enforcer lurking beside the Fox's air lock, but in no mood for conversation.

Something of his lethal frame of mind must have showed, because Terk put up both hands. “Hey, I'm not the enemy here,” he said quickly.

“Time is.” Morgan began punching in the codes on the station side of the air lock, transferring the outrageous penalty for early undocking to Plexis admin. When it squawked a complaint about a lack of credits in his account, Morgan didn't bother arguing. After a quick glance to either side to confirm they were alone, he slipped out his force blade and sliced the panel open, reaching into the gap to pull out carefully selected wiring. The station air lock obediently cycled green,
unlocked
.

“Interesting trick,” Terk commented.

Morgan whirled, the force blade still humming in his hand, his eyes wild. Terk didn't flinch. They stood like that, both tense, for a long moment. “What's wrong?” the Enforcer asked, his rough voice unusually gentle. “Has something happened to Sira?”

The Trader straightened from his half-crouch, running a self-conscious hand through his hair to disguise hiding his knife with the other. “You're late,” he accused.

“Is that all? We came as soon as we heard Plexis had tried to arrest the Carasian. Chief Bowman's reaming out Inspector Wallace even now.” From Terk's voice, that was a conversation he'd hoped to enjoy in person. “‘Whix has gone to check in with your friend. When we saw the
Fox
listed, I came here.” He looked abruptly embarrassed but resolute, running one hand through his pale, wispy hair before saying: “I wanted to tell you in person that Kareen's doing well. Very well. The med-techs can't get over it.”

“Good,” Morgan said, taking a second breath, feeling anxiety and grief competing for attention now that he was no longer in full attack mode. “Good. But tell ‘Whix—” He changed his mind mid-sentence. No point confusing the Tolian; there was a Carasian in the restaurant. It just wasn't the Carasian they expected. “Tell ‘Whix there's a body in one of the apartments. Ansel Delacor. He—worked at the restaurant.”

Terk swore. “This isn't going to help Huido's case, Morgan.”

The Human lifted one hand; Terk subsided. “It's nothing to do with Huido,” Morgan said tonelessly. “Ansel was attacked by Ren Symon. I did my best to help him, but the damage—the strain—was too much for him. He died in my arms.”

Terk scowled. “You wouldn't have left with your engines at translight if you didn't have a lead on Symon. Don't try and go after him alone, Morgan. We can—”

“Can what, Russ?” Morgan demanded, eyes intent. “I've had another taste of his Power. Enough to tell me that Symon, or one of his disciples, was responsible for the attack on Kareen's mind, too—likely for the same reason: information. He's got some new device of his own, some new trick, but what matters is nothing will protect you from him. Not your body armor and ship—and not your implants. Are you hearing me?”

“And you're so safe?” Terk protested. “He hates your guts, Morgan. It's no accident Fodera's body was dumped the one place it would bring you running.”

“Am I safe?” Morgan repeated, then gave a short grim laugh. “Not in any sense, my friend. As Symon will find out.”

I
HAD to find out what was happening to me or go mad.
Was I already?
Surely it wasn't normal to be three at once. At least three: a Self existing solely within the M'hir—an obvious sign of insanity, to imagine that; a Self reliving her own memories, peeling away layer after layer of untruth—more proof; and a Self barely able to whisper to the others, a self whose softest questioning could lure . . .

The Singer.

...
my seducer
...

I recognized the choice, if not how I made it: . . .
the song or my past . . .

 

“There.”

Adia's voice was full of pride. I stared at myself in the mirror and wondered dully what she possibly saw that I could not. The white robe—which was ridiculously hard to put on without help, even had this one been my size—made my body into some grotesque thing, like a pole supporting a sail. My thin hair had ignored all of Adia's valiant efforts to glorify or even tidy it, while my eyes—

I turned away, unwilling to admit seeing my own fear. This was the next stage in my life, when I'd go from an overprotected and indulged Chooser, virtually captive in this House, to Chosen—free to go where I wished, when I wished. That longed-for freedom was minutes away.

“What's his name?”

Adia, busy cleaning up the bath area, shook her head at me. “Sira, you know his name. Your father announced it last night.”

I was tempted to stick my tongue out at her, but the heavy ceremonial robe seemed to inhibit such spontaneity. “Somewhere during the names of those candidates Jarad hadn't approved, I stopped listening to him,” I confessed.

The First Chosen was too well-mannered to reply to this, but I felt a warmth in her Power against my shields. “Coryl di Parth, my dear Chooser,” she informed me. “Firstborn and the most powerful of all the candidates available. Having him selected for your Choice is quite an accomplishment for the House of di Parth. When Coryl becomes di Sarc—as all predict, given your Power—they may yet gain a member on Council.” She came close, trying to affix a flower to my hair, something tiny and fragrant. I held still, hoping it would stay, but it slid free the moment Adia took her hand away.

I tried to dredge up the memory of a face to match the name, but failed. “Have I met him?” I asked. “This Coryl?”

“No,” Adia said, giving a light sigh of frustration as she absently tucked the remaining flower into her own thickly cooperative hair. She stood back and inspected me. “Ah, but you are fine as you are, Sira. It's your Power-of-Choice that will draw him to you. And when you've Commenced, we will have more luck with flowers, won't we?”

Commenced
.
Choice
. I felt a shiver of apprehension down my back that turned into something quite different: a dark warmth that moved within me, awakening places I'd never known could feel before. Awakening a need deeper than appetite.

For the first time since losing my link to my mother, I began to believe I'd be complete again.

My father and members of the Council, representatives from the House of di Parth—conspicuous in the triumphant, if unmannerly, taste of their Power—and other witnesses lined the Joining Chamber of sud Friesnen. I couldn't have named any of them. The moment Adia led me through the door, my attention was locked on the Clansman kneeling in the red circle on the floor before the Speaker.

“The Chooser has appeared,” the Speaker intoned. “Bring forth the
duras
, so that all may witness.”

My candidate. His eyes flashed up to mine, then modestly down again. Dark, uncertain eyes.

“Witness the blending of Power . . . Joining lasts forever . . .”

There was something wrong with the air, I thought, finding my breath coming deeper and faster as Adia brought me to kneel within the red circle, the stone floor cold on my bare feet.

Kneeling, my candidate—I remembered his name, Coryl di Parth—was taller than I by head and shoulders—slender, with fine elegant bones. The expression on his otherwise pleasant face, now that he looked at me, seemed an uncomfortable mixture of anxiety and some other feeling I couldn't name, but shared. Perhaps it was anticipation.

He reached his right hand toward me and, as I laid mine in it, I was pleased to note he had long, supple fingers, the type needed for the keffle-flute. It had taken me years to work out a technique allowing my shorter fingers to reach the uppermost . . . his hand was hot to the touch, I realized, losing my train of thought as that heat seemed to spread to every part of me.

“Power seeks Power through the M'hir . . .”

A
duras
cup was pressed into my free hand. Coryl didn't look away from me as he brought his to his lips. I mirrored his actions, taking a deep swallow of the somgelt. Within a heartbeat, the age-old spice worked its magic, showing me Coryl as he'd appear in the M'hir itself. As Power.

Power
. The Power-of-Choice, my legacy as Chooser, boiled up through me, an irresistible force whirling us both into the M'hir ...

I was the center of all things. The source and the goal. I was . . . There was an Other! I reached out with all my strength but couldn't touch his distant glow. I tried and tried, but the more I stretched toward that brightness, the farther it seemed to be, as if the Power-of-Choice refused to let us combine.

There was nothing else I could do.
I pushed
. . .

... and opened my eyes to see Coryl, shaking his head, disappointment plain to read on his face and in his Power. He dropped my hand as if its touch burned him. I felt him concentrate and watched him disappear—leaving me more alone than I'd ever been before.

I'd failed.

...
the lie parted, the truth protruding from beneath like the white splintered ends of a fractured bone through flesh . . .

Power. The Power-of-Choice, my legacy as Chooser, boiled up through me, an irresistible force whirling us both into the M'hir ...

I was the center of all things. The source and the goal. I was . . . searching for something. Ah. With a shudder, I remembered that urgent ecstasy and stretched arms of Power to seek it again . . .

One arm touched an Other! An Invader! This was my domain. Mine and . . . The Power-of-Choice smashed into the dim, futile glow that dared approach my glory, that dared pretend to be my equal—snuffing it out completely . . .

Finding nothing else to hold my attention,
I pushed
...

... and opened my eyes to see Coryl sprawled loose-limbed on the floor, his jaw slack, eyes rolled back so only the whites showed. Someone—Adia—pried my hand free and pulled me to my feet; someone else was screaming, in my mind as well as in my ears, until Coryl's body disappeared.

I tasted the Power exerted to
push
Coryl di Parth's empty husk into the M'hir. I could have done it, I supposed, a final courtesy for my brave candidate. I wasn't sure what to do. This wasn't supposed to happen.

No one died during Choice.

My mind, my Power, felt bruised but not drained. I leaned against Adia, feigning weakness, so she fussed and insisted on taking me out of that chamber of death.

I couldn't tell her part of me was sickeningly triumphant, that my Power-of-Choice surged with desire to defend my emptiness again.

I could only hope Council wouldn't find another candidate.

“I only hope Barac knows what he's doing. He won't listen to reason—just keeps telling me I'll be fine without him! As if I would ever need the help of a
sud!
”

Copelup gestured something peacefully noncommittal, tentacles holding a container firmly against his mouth as he reclined comfortably on the couch in Rael's suite. The Clanswoman started to glare at him, but gave up. There was nothing satisfying in glaring at someone who was not only eyeless but was, to all intents and purposes, more interested in lunch than in her predicament.

She should have taken Barac more seriously. He'd obviously overreacted to their last experiment with Drapskii. Typical of the unChosen to scamper away at the slightest hint of danger.

Which wasn't true of Barac, Rael reminded herself, picking up her own wineglass and sitting down slowly. He'd proved himself long before now. If he'd left her to be the only Mystic One on Drapskii, it wasn't abandonment—hers was the greater Power, and it was only fitting Barac should leave if his was unequal to their task.

Which wasn't true either, Rael suddenly realized. Barac was weaker than she, of course, but he'd learned to use everything he possessed to its utmost. But something had changed in him following their latest encounter with Drapskii, almost as if he'd been unable to pull completely free of the planet's presence, as if it still clung to him in the M'hir. If that were so, and Barac believed it dangerous, it might be why he left.