To Trade the Stars (46 page)

I
could forgive the Heerii. They'd only wanted to help their own kind. I could even forgive the Rugherans, since I had no real idea what they wanted.

But my imagination had definitely gone well beyond forgiveness. I stared at the side of the
Silver Fox
, close enough to touch, and knew I'd gone mad at last. It had just popped into existence, crushing a line of small trees, and stood there as impossible as ...

As impossible as hope. My body swarmed with song, pounding, irresistible. The Rugherans pulled at my tree, swinging me back and forth. Perhaps I'd conjured up the Fox to as the ultimate distraction, so I could end this existence with thoughts of my ...

The base of my tree disappeared in a gout of blaster fire, with the immediate consequence of my dropping to the ground through a spray of rapidly cooling ash. Rugherans collected their arms—seemingly none the worse for the blast—and moved back, leaving me lying sore and breathless on what I felt like a pile of rock. The Singer withdrew as well.

It had the feel of a very temporary reprieve.

Not that I cared at the moment, being too busy fending off an assault of another sort. Something or someone with hands was running them over my arms and legs as if I was unconscious, aggravating every tree-cramped muscle and new bruise I owned. “Stop that!” I snapped, wondering why this invisible someone hadn't thought to bring a light. My eyes burned with the aftermath of the blast.

As if I'd said something completely different, the invisible someone made an incoherent noise before pulling me into an embrace so tight I could hardly breathe.

This was too much. I'd had more than enough of strange beings trying to intrude where only my Chosen was permitted. I squirmed and shoved my way free, hauling the keffle-flute case out of my shirt and doing my utmost to hit whomever this was somewhere painful.

Strong hands caught and held my flailing arms. The case dropped and I heard a rather desperate voice say: “Gods, Sira! It's me!”

Morgan? I went still, unsure. The voice was familiar. But I couldn't imagine having him touch me and not knowing it inside, where it mattered.

He must have felt something of my distress. His grip eased, but didn't fall away. “I'll get a light. ʺPlease, Sira. It's me. Jason.”

My hair believed what I couldn't. It flowed over my shoulders and down my arms to reach his hands, seeming to paralyze us both with the possibility of truth. My eyes began to adapt to the Rugherans' glow and I puzzled out his silhouette against it. “I don't sense you,” I whispered numbly.

The collar.

“Get the light,” I urged him, already hearing the Singer returning. “The Heerii put something around my neck to lock me from the Mʹhir—from you. You have to get it off before the Singer comes back.”

It must be my Human, for he didn't ask or delay, simply rose and fired his blaster along the side of the Fox. The resulting glow of heated metal reflected from the Rugherans surrounding us. I saw what should be Morgan look around, the realization of our situation dawning on his face. It wasnʹt him and it was. My Power strained to know the truth; I feared it would find the Singer first. “Hurry!” I cried, putting my hands under the collar to lift it toward him

He went to his knees in front of me, the light from the Fox catching the impossible blue of his eyes as they met mine, then dropped to the collar. “Hold still,” he said. I felt the metal moving around my neck as he sought the opening.

“It takes a code to open it,” I said, trying to be helpful.

What should be Morgan nodded grimly at our surroundings—and company. “No time,” he replied. He altered a setting on his blaster, then picked up a piece of broken twig—hooking that under the necklace to pull it away from my skin.

Before I could do more than shout, ʺWhat do you—ʺ he fired the weapon.

I found out later the heat had scorched my neck and cheek, though my hair pulled itself out of danger. Later . . . because in that instant all I truly knew or cared was that Morgan, my Chosen, had reappeared in my mind as well as my arms.

 

There was no time for celebration either, after that one soul-deep embrace. I opened my thoughts to show Morgan what had happened with the Heerii and the Rugherans, what I knew of Drapskii. But when it came to sharing the Singer, I didn't so much falter as I felt shame.

Don't,
he sent, with an undercurrent of understanding—and a hint of wicked amusement. I might have been starving, so rich was the feel of Morgan's sending in my mind. His amusement I would deal with later.
Know this
, he sent in return, wisely avoiding any further comment on my own experiences, and passing along what he knew about the Drapsk.

First things first. I gathered my Power, relishing the freedom to do so, and restored what I could of Morgan's. His Human strength was resilient, but even it had been tasked too severely to recover quickly enough. For once, he didn't argue about the gift, probably sensing I was in no mood to be refused.

Guard me, my Chosen
. Without further delay, I drove my thoughts outward, reaching and finding Rael.

What's happening?
I replied after the briefest possible reassurance.

Here!
Her thoughts opened, clear and triumphant.

“Morgan!” I took his hand as I cut my connection to Rael, promising to come to her as soon as possible. “It's Drapskii. Rael and Barac finished reconnecting it to the M'hir.” I smiled with relief. “It's over.”

I glared at the Rugherans.

“They don't agree,” Morgan said unnecessarily. “And I thought you told me the Singer was still here.”

“This is their business, not ours.” I tried to pull him toward the
Fox
. He wouldn't budge. I didn't need the faint glow of the waiting aliens to know that stubborn look was on my Human's face. “I can keep the Singer away,” I assured him. “I have always.”

“Have you?” No amusement this time.

“Of course I have. And as long as I don't play—ʺ The words died in my throat as Morgan bent to retrieve my keffle-flute case. He opened it and took out the instrument. Its high polish picked up the Rugherans' fluorescence, producing tiny sparks. “What are you doing, Morgan?” I demanded.

“What happens if she does?” Morgan asked almost idly.

Morgan!
I sent, furious.

He winced, but shrugged. “It's worth asking.”

/attention/joy/~survivalsuccesshomecoming~/joy/~!~/
gratitude/

“Who comes home?”

Unlike me, Morgan seemed to have no trouble following the Rugherans' bursts of thought and emotion, turning this into some bizarre conversation. “Where are they now?”

ʺWhy?ʺ

The glow brightened, moved, as if the Rugherans heaved and pulsed like the M'hir when disturbed. The patterns on their bodies, I suddenly realized, reminded me of how I saw that other space.

“The Drapsk?” I asked involuntarily, unsure who'd answer. “They weren't native to Drapskii. Did they move into Rugheran territory without realizing it? Was Drapskii yours before?”

Morgan ran his fingers along my unburned cheek. “I think I understand, Lady Witch.”

“I'm glad someone does,” I said ominously, sensing Morgan in full plotting mode.

“These fine beings want their colony—for lack of a better word—returned. Drapskii. Maybe it has resources they need, or stranded Rugherans living there. Or it's what you'd call property in the M'hir. The Drapsk want their access to the Scented Way through Drapskii restored—access, I believe, the Rugherans have tried to block in an attempt to get back what they consider theirs.”

I'd have questioned his fast and furious interpretation if it hadn't been for the immediate burst of
/attention /gratification/~!~/determination/
that followed it.

“The Singer?” I asked instead.

“Breaking the siege.”

I loved my Human with all my being, but he was occasionally as difficult to comprehend as any other alien. “What?”

ʺThink about it. Drapskii has been a point of contention between these species—if not more—for years. You've told me Drapskii is itself alive and aware on some level. What if it's been held virtually under siege by the conflict? Doesn't it make sense that Drapskii would have tried to break free by forging a new connection? ʺ

Nothing about this made sense, I thought, longing for the days when the Clan had believed themselves alone in the M'hir. “A new connection. With me. You think Drapskii is the Singer?”

“And has good taste.” Definite amusement now, under the seriousness.

“ ‘He' being a rock.” I wasn't sure why the notion that my so-alluring seducer was nonsentient offended me, but it did.

“The Rugherans seem to want the Singer to succeed, as if that will resolve their problem with Drapskii as well.”

I didn't like where this was going. “What are you suggesting?”

“We are Traders, my Lady Witch.” Morgan raised his voice, as if to make sure as many Rugherans heard him as possible. I didn't think volume mattered, but then again, I'd been the one shouting myself hoarse from a tree most of the night. “Drapskii wants its freedom. So do you. Promise to restore the Drapsks' access to the Scented Way and Sira will help you.”

I will not!
If Morgan hadn't strengthened his shields—with Power I'd given him—my outraged sending would have knocked hm to the ground.

“It's not about trust, Jason!” I stepped back from him, breathing heavily. “I am your Chosen. No other—pairings—are acceptable. I cannot offer myself to another—even like this—without losing myself. I'll die. You'll die. For what? To stop a war we can't see? It's impossible.”

I felt his smile. “I've done the impossible today,ʺ the Human said calmly. ”Hear me out. Of course I don't mean you to somehow submit to some creature—Iʹd kill it first.” His voice carried utter conviction, conviction I could sense along our link. ”You've shown me how Drapskii has been pursuing you—trying to use you—to fulfill its need. What if we can show it another possibility, guide it to another connection? There must be others like it. Perhaps closer than we realize.”

I gazed over the dark humps and hollows, their shapes picked out in whorls and spirals of white. We could have been standing on some ocean, surrounded by shy creatures called up from the depths by night, reflecting the stars with their own soft light. Or stood in the midst of the M'hir as others of my kind would know it.

I spoke my thoughts aloud, courtesy, since we weren't alone. “Is it possible, Jason? Do other worlds have their mirror existence—do they seek one another, do they feel? Can they?” As I paused, I could hear the sucking sound again, low and strange, and imagined it the planet itself breathing, alive. I felt on the verge of grasping something large about the universe, something that might tie together the clues I'd be given, the hints from the Drapsk, from my life, from the Singer.

Before the moment faded—and common sense returned—I held out my hand for the flute. At the same time, I opened my awareness of the M'hir: first, to bring Morgan's glow close to mine, feeling his love and courage wrapping around me like a wall of protection; second, to seek the Rugherans in that other place. I
pushed
deeper, even as I lifted my flute to my lips, ready and waiting ...

... I reveled in Power, finally free to go where I willed, as I willed. It wasn't the mobility of those around me, those others. Shaped like birds of uttermost darkness, they cavorted through the energy-soaked M'hir as if it were air, wheeling and diving in every direction while I clung to one place for safety, held to Morgan's mind as a lifeline, and poured Power into my knowledge of self, so I could leave this place once done. They viewed me as the intruder, the stranger, the unfit. Not unwelcome, but pitied.

Part of me was amused, understanding I had the Power to scatter these things like a predator among a shimmering school of smaller life. Part of me looked beyond, sought what gathered the Rugherans to this one place.

There
. Morgan shared my astonishment as it appeared—as if summoned by my interest—a massive spherelike shape, like power coiled around itself. Massive, or was it infinitesimal? Size had no counterparts here. But this was White, the planet of the Rugherans. I didn't doubt it. Arms, like theirs, reached out from the coil—arms of energy. They appeared to be feeling for something lost. Or desired.

Now, Sira.
Morgan's voice, somehow here, with me.

In both spaces, I began to play—for Jason Morgan, not the Singer. The music started in the keffle-flute, drawn from my depths, my needs. It surged into Morgan, then back to me, then filled us both . . . passion and promise . . . need and completion.

It rippled outward, tumbling Rugherans midflight, as if a storm blew through the M'hir from my unseen lips, brightening the coil of their world, summoning the Singer. In an instant, he was there, demanding, desperate.