To Trade the Stars (28 page)

But it hadn't been home, until Enora was born—the last child in the House of sud Friesnen, a bright spark of personality and affection with almost no Power of her own, save over our hearts. With her arrival, my hermitage became filled with giggles and toys, secrets and learning. Adia, busy with the affairs of her House, was happy to leave Enora in my care. I . . . was simply happy. And tonight it would end.

“You are coming, aren't you?”

I curled myself tighter in the chair, knowing she couldn't see my face in the dim light. “I don't feel well. Give the First Chosen my apologies. Now go. You'll be late.”

She stepped closer, eyes dilated, her small hand reaching toward me. Enora's Talent lay in her empathy and, even this young, it was impossible to hide feelings from her. She didn't confuse my sorrow as illness. “Sira? Why are you so sad? Fostering is a happy time. Mother says so. She'll be with me. And you and I can still talk mind-to-mind. Please come.”

Come? Be there when she used what strength she had to 'port away from her mother, from me? “I can't, Enora,” I confessed, feeling tears spill down my face. “I'd disgrace you. I can't stand there and pretend to be happy you are leaving.”

Fostering was only Enora 's first step away from me. I looked at her, seeing the lovely lines of the Clanswoman she would be, one day. There would be no lack of candidates for Enora sud Friesnen. She would foster, become a Chooser, Join, and move to a House of her own. I knew the pattern too well, having watched my entire generation move on and leave me behind.

Even my mother. I couldn't leave the Cloisters, as the sud Friesnens now called their home, without risking the unChosen. Mirim had never come to me. Now, she was preoccupied with caring for my newborn sister, Rael di Sarc. In time, Jarad claimed, Rael might be fostered with me, so that the passage from Camos to Deneb might be strengthened. He was always planning for the future.

I couldn't imagine one.

Enora climbed into my lap, a familiarity I permitted, and tucked her tiny head under my chin. She smelled of flowers and soap. “I can't go very far,” the child said without shame. “I'll still be on Camos. You could visit me.”

“Camos has become too full of Clan, little one,” I sighed, hugging her close. “It would be too dangerous for any un—” She was too young for details. “It wouldn't be wise for me to travel away from home, right now,” I temporized.

She pulled back to look into my eyes. I could feel her determination. “Then I'll come back here. I swear it. After—after—whatever lies ahead, I'll come back here to live with you. Unless you've gone . . .” This last was said with a tremble, as though she'd suddenly considered I might change after all, and no longer be waiting to play in my gray stone tower.

I gave Enora a gentle shake. “I'll either be here, or I'll be visiting you. How's that, little one? Now, why don't you help me choose something suitable out of my closet? I think I do feel well enough to come to your party.”

“I wish you could attend, Sira,” Rael didn't quite pout, but the intention was there.

I raised a brow rather than laugh at my heart-kin. “No, you don't.”

She was radiant. That was the only word I could find for my sister as a Chooser. Rael was strong in her own right and Talented, but now, augmented and encased by her Power-of-Choice? If I slipped into the M'hir, she was dazzling; to my ordinary vision, her fair skin glowed and her eyes sparkled with excitement.

And why not? Joined, Rael would be free to leave the Cloisters, a home she'd shared with me happily, but which had never been enough for her spirit. Rael, like many Choosers her age, was powerful enough to be lethal to a weaker candidate. Council fluctuated between joy and dismay at this change in our kind: joy, because the surge of ability within this generation benefitted all Clan; dismay, because mine hadn't been the only disastrous attempt and Houses were becoming less willing to risk their unChosen sons.

I had no fear for Rael's candidate, confident she would successfully Choose Janac di Paniccia. I should be; I'd selected him. Our father hadn't argued—not because he agreed with me, but because he judged Janac too weak and likely to fail. What he called, privately, “the weeding out of the inferior among us” didn't bother Jarad at all.

It bothered me. I'd spent the last three years delving into family records, researching, hunting for the best possible match for Rael, a candidate whose Power complemented hers in more subtle ways than mere strength. I had never met Janac in person, of course, nor contacted his mind—for the same reason I wouldn't be in attendance at my own sister's Choice. The unChosen couldn't help but seek the more powerful Chooser, as insects to flame. So Rael would ‘port to Deneb for her Joining to avoid me. Our mother and new sister, Pella, would be at her side.

My remaining role in Rael's life? To help her pack.

“They say the firstborn of di Caraat has exceptional Power,” Rael said suddenly. “What's his name?”

I slipped a gift into her last bag. The servants had taken the rest. “Yihtor,” I told her, though she knew perfectly well. “Council rejected him.”

“Or you did.” Her eyes flashed in sudden anger. “You have to take a chance, Sira, or you'll be here forever—”

“If that's what it takes to make sure no one else dies, then so be it!” I fired back, but gestured appeasement immediately. “Forgive me, heart-kin.”

“Always,” she said quickly, but shook her head. “Understand you? Never.”

“Maybe Pella will do better, then. She starts her fostering with me very soon.”

“Will you try and teach her, too?” My sister picked up my keffle-flute and tossed it at me.

I put it to my lips and trilled a laugh. “Someone else in the family must be able to carry a tune,” I said optimistically. Rael hadn't the patience to master the flute, though she'd worked diligently to perfect her Talents.

We both felt the summons. “Time to go, Rael,” I told her. “Janac's waiting. Be well. And come back to visit as soon as you can.”

Her eyes glistened with tears. “I will. I promise.”

I watched Rael disappear, leaving me alone, again.

The explosion may have been minor, but it took us unawares. In the hall, I caught the sleeve of one of the servants, an older Human named Persio. The air was choked with dust. “Are you all right? Was anyone hurt?”

“I'm fine, Fem di Sarc. So is everyone else. But you shouldn't stay down here. There could be another explosion.”

“There shouldn't have been a first,” I said dryly, letting him dash away on whatever errand was required. Cleaning, that was certain.

After Adia's death, I'd taken the sud Friesnens' home as my own. I was the only Clan who lived in the old stone building these days, with the exception of the brief and usually tumultuous intervals when my fosterling, Pella, deigned too return. She took advantage of my preoccupation with my studies, ‘porting around Camos with a fine disregard for her age and responsibilities as fosterling. Her link with our mother would probably last less time than Rael's, even with the solid pathway already in place between Camos and Deneb. At least Pella enjoyed the keffle-flute, somehow attaining a reasonable proficiency despite having the attention span of a water drop under the midsummer sun.

For once, I was pleased by Pella's absence, since it meant she'd missed the mysterious blast which had taken out part of the lowermost floor of the Cloisters. Only one room and an entrance, both hardly used, had been damaged. The building was as solid as the cliff that hosted it, and only the most precariously perched crystal had broken. The puzzle remained: why? Technology wasn't an interest of mine, but taking on the duties, if not rights, of First Chosen meant paying attention to the household. So I knew the room had contained nothing that could explode—just some old exterior storm panels. They'd become unnecessary once Camos established complete weather control. It made, I grumbled to myself, no sense.

Until I 'ported back to my rooms and immediately found all the explanation necessary. The harmless explosion had been deliberate—a diversion that allowed an intruder to land his aircar on my balcony without notice. I would have felt any Clan ‘porting into my home, but not this.

So now, a handsome stranger confronted me in my own bedroom, one who dared to smile and greet me, as if his Human-like subterfuge would please me. “Chooser.”

“Fool,” I replied. This had to be Yihtor di Caraat. An unChosen. I could feel his need inflaming the M'hir between us—the dark eagerness inside me responding no matter how I tried to ignore it. “Is this how you wish to die?” I demanded harshly. “There are other Choosers, suited to your Power.”

“I will offer you Choice,” he said thickly, as if he hadn't heard or didn't care to hear. I thought the latter. “You, the jewel of them all.”

I should have 'ported away the moment I saw him, but it was already too late. I wasn't immune to instinct. Compared to my emptiness, his longing to be fulfilled was a grain of sand to my desert. I stared at the hand Yihtor held out to me, feeling reason slip away as mine lifted to meet it.

Suddenly, my father was in the room, and others from Council. Yihtor's handsome face turned into this desperate, ugly thing, screaming defiance even as the other Clan 'ported him out of reach. I would have followed, but for a second, my ‘port was blocked.

It was long enough for sanity. I found myself again, shuddering inwardly how close I'd come to—I stopped the thought and bowed with an unusually fervent gesture of gratitude to those lesser in Power to both the Councillors and my father. “How did you know?” I asked Jarad, then shook my head in wonder. “You expected Yihtor to try something like this. You had him followed. Why didn't you stop him sooner?”

“He wouldn't take no for an answer. Or listen to Council dictates.”

We'd never become affectionate, but knew each other well enough after all these years. Jarad had aged impressively, gaining presence and poise. I hadn't aged, outwardly, but at times like this I felt even older. I'd changed; he had not. Jarad performed the occasional courtesy for me, such as reserving every table at a restaurant in the nearby city so I could leave the Cloisters for a meal with him. He would listen to my music or my studies, finding both agreeable pastimes if not extended too long. I judged each of these encounters by what he wanted to gain—at times no more than to remind himself of my Power, as if he gauged me against some candidate he investigated.

At others, we discussed Council matters. I was older than most on Council, more powerful than any, and, as Jarad was fond of telling me, I should be on it. I wasn't so sure he'd relish our debates when a vote depended on our agreement—because we rarely did.

So now, I glared at him, understanding the exquisite timing of Jarad's arrival with Yihtor's. “You wanted to prove to me how far he'd go. What he'd dare to reach me.”

Jarad's eyes gleamed.
Just so, Daughter.

“Now will you listen to our advice, Sira?” Councillor Sawnda'at asked.

I scowled. “You want to fortify my home because of one fool you've already caught.”

“Because of the others to come, Daughter. Unless you've changed your mind and wish to receive unqualified candidates for your Choice?” Jarad said with false compassion.

“Install your fortifications,” I told Sawnda'at, looking at Jarad. “But before you lock me away, I want the Council records I've been using for my research transferred here.”

Crisac di Friesnen, older than when we'd first met, but not much wiser, objected immediately. “Ridiculous! Krea di Mendolar, our late Speaker, was right to refuse you any access within the Council Chamber. It was only after his untimely death that your father swayed Council into humoring this absurd pursuit. Now, you'd ask us to risk sending such irreplaceable—”

I stopped him with a pulse of Power—rude, but effective. “If you want me to stay here, Councillors, to await your needs, it will be on my terms, not yours,” I said evenly, including my father as I gazed at them all in turn. “You cannot keep me here. You cannot force me to Choose. And do not pretend you can guarantee I will ever have Choice or be free of this prison you'll make for me. The records that I want. By tomorrow.”

As one, they disappeared, leaving the M'hir tasting of capitulation and respect, with a touch of triumph I knew was Jarad's. Their emotional response didn't concern me. I would have what I wanted, those records and my privacy to research their secrets. To find out how to stop all of this . . .

I picked up the keffle-flute and went out to my balcony. With a disdainful flick of power, I
pushed
Yihtor's aircar out of my way, sending it to join the rest of the destruction he'd caused in my home.

The cliff dancers came out slowly, used to me, if not to disappearing machines. This time of year, the tiny creatures dared gravity to prance and perform for their mates. Much like Yihtor, I thought with a sigh. The music I chose to send over the cliff was filled with melancholy and despair, an outlet for my impossible longing. I played for hours, through the sun's setting. I played until my fingers grew too cold to hold the flute, then, comforted and calmed, I sought my bed.

The cliff dancers . . . I lifted my flute to my lips and began to play notes of loneliness and aching need. It was as if the sound came from inside me, not the instrument.