Dragon in Exile - eARC (31 page)

“I find you alone,” Silain said, after they had sipped their tea, and each had chosen a soft roll with a bit of cheese. “I hear, from others of my children and grandchildren, that Droi is often alone, and I wonder, my daughter, if this is a passing season, brought to you by the child?”

“Grandmother, it may be so. I…frighten my brothers and my sisters, and, sometimes…I frighten myself. It seems best to be alone, except when I am useful to the
kompani
.”

“The Bedel say that we are of use because we are the Bedel. We need do nothing else except be who we are, for we are beloved of the universe.”

This was a thing that the Bedel did say, and thus there was nothing to say to it. Droi sipped her tea, finding a thread of sweetness. She sipped again, seeking the flavor again, and savoring it. Her tongue,
luthia
-trained, found it to be
feenil
, which was given to strengthen a pregnancy.

She looked up, her heart in her mouth.

“Grandmother?”

“Peace, it is only an old woman’s meddling. It will do good, if there is good to be done; and no harm, if not.”

She plucked one of the green fruits up, and put it in her mouth, eating it with every appearance of enjoyment.

“This desire to be of use,” she said. “I saw that in you when you were my apprentice. It seems to me a good thing; and one shared by all who would become
luthia
.”

“And, yet,” Droi said, her tongue perhaps loosened by the
feenil
. “I am not fit to be
luthia
.”

Silain looked up, surprise in her face. She leaned forward and grasped Droi’s hand between both of hers.

“Droi. Daughter. You are more than fit to be
luthia
. That you should think otherwise—I am ashamed.”

“You set me aside, Grandmother!”

“I did, yes. For this
kompani
, in this time, you would be the wrong
luthia
, which is far different than being no
luthia
at all.”

“What difference, when there is only this
kompani
, and this time?”

Silain smiled. She patted Droi’s hand, and let her go.

“Time flows, bringing changes. But, enough. You are tired, and the
feenil
is working. I have come to you with a purpose. In the City Above, there are two wise women who seek to bring together the several families of
gadje
into one family.”

Droi sniffed, disdainfully.

“It is not possible.”

“I think that it might be,” Silain said. “I don’t think it will be easy, but these are strong women, with determined hearts. In order to do their best in the task they have set themselves, they need to understand what this world was meant to be. We, the
kompani
, hold dreams from an earlier time which might help them.”

“You would give the
gadje
our dreams?” Droi raised her hand to cover a yawn.

“No, for, as they admit, they are not dreamers. I have said that you will help them. You will go to them, and they will tell you what they seek. Then, you will dream and bring to them those things that will aid them.”

Silain paused to sip tea, and added, gently.

“You would be of use, daughter.”

It might have been the
feenil
, or it might have been curiosity, to see these
gadje
wise women who sought to heal a world with dreams.

“I will go to them.”

“Good. Udari will guide you, when you are ready.”

She wanted to protest, but surely the
feenil
was at work.

“Yes, Grandmother,” she said, and raised her hand before another yawn.

“I will see you to your bed,” Silain said. “Kezzi will make the hearth orderly, and sleep in the tent tonight.”

She rose, docile as a child, leaving the remains of the meal and the tea. She took her grandmother’s hand, and together they went into the tent.

Later, comforted by blankets, and drowsy with warmth, she heard her name spoken, and looked up into Silain’s eyes.

“I have a thing for you, child,” the
luthia
said. She brought forth a chain, and on it, a set of tiles in that pattern that denoted a personal history.

The
feenil
softened the pain; but it did nothing to blur her Sight.

“Rys?” she whispered. “He has left us…already?”

“Time flows,” Silain crooned, “fast and slow.” She bent and slipped the chain around Droi’s neck, tucking the tiles close.

“Keep it safe,” she murmured, and lay her hand across Droi’s eyes.

“Sleep,” she said, and Droi tumbled headlong into darkness.

Interlude Ten

Vivulonj Prosperu

In Transit

Cool air stroked her face, the scent of mint tingled in her nose; somewhere, a chime sounded, soft and continuous.

Her right hand rested on a hard, slick surface; her left on chilly flesh. She swallowed, tasting more mint, and opened her eyes.

Above her, a bright white ceiling, partly occluded by the curve of an opaque black hood.

She considered it placidly, waiting…

“Good-day to you, Pilot.”

The voice—was somewhat familiar. She turned her head, and raised her eyes.

A man stood beside the place where she lay. His face, like his voice, was somewhat familiar. She had seen him, she thought, not too very long ago.

A name slipped into her waiting mind.

“Uncle Arin?”

Eyebrows lifted.

“Uncle,” he agreed. “Arin long ago took his own path.”

There seemed nothing to say to that, so she waited some more, beginning to be cold, now, and slightly less placid.

“Would you care to exit the unit?” asked the man named Uncle. “There are clothes, here. In the antechamber, there is tea, and sandwiches. I give you my word that these things are untainted, and will do you no harm.”

It did come to her, then, that this man was not always trustworthy. However, there seemed no utility in lying naked in the cool, mint-scented breeze, and she was, she realized, very hungry.

“I will rise, and dress,” she said. “And then I will eat.”

At this, he bowed, and withdrew from her ken, to the antechamber, she supposed.

She rolled slowly off the mat and stood, finding carpet beneath bare feet, and a sweater and slacks folded over a nearby chair. Ordinary ship clothes, save for the lack of boots, or soft-shoes. There was no mirror, which was unfortunate, since she recalled, as if it had happened a very long time ago, that Daav had been…quite badly hurt. Of course, Uncle had placed them in the autodoc, so apparently the body had not been beyond hope of help. But how odd, she thought, reaching for the sweater, that she should have awoken ascendent.

Her peace…rippled, then, as if a placid pond had been disturbed by the passage of a cold breeze.

Where was Daav
?

The conditions of her existence for so many years had been…enclosed by Daav. She, least of anyone, knew where, or how, she existed within her lifemate’s brain, but exist she did.

Always before there had been a sense of Daav about her, even when she was ascendent and he asleep. Now…

Her sense
now
was that…she was alone. The inside of her head felt airy and light, as if she were newly-arrived, and had not yet left thoughts cluttering the tabletops, or rustling in dark corners.

Indeed, there were no dark corners, as she perceived her condition.

She took a deep breath of cool, minty air, and looked down.

Small, high breasts, a girl’s flat belly, sweet, unused feet with pearly nails.

This was not the body she shared with Daav. This was—

The man called Uncle was a clone, she recalled suddenly. He was impossibly old, having serially transferred
himself
—his personality and at least some of his long memory—into new bodies for hundreds of years; Cantra’s diaries would have it that he had embraced the practice even before the Migration.

She was shivering; and panting as if she had run from Solcintra to Chonselta. The mint flavored air suddenly nauseated and cloyed.

Hand trembling, peace shattered, she caught up the waiting clothes and pulled them on. Behind her was an unsealed door. She marched through it into a small chamber where a table was set with teapot and cups, and plates with tiny sandwiches in the shapes of fish and flowers. There were two chairs at the table. The man named Uncle was not in either of them, though he was standing behind one.

At her entrance, he raised both of his hands, as if he would soothe her.

“Please, Pilot.”

“Please?” she retorted, but the edge of her fear was gone, evaporating in the scent of mint.

She stepped forward and frowned up into his face. “Are you calming me?” she demanded.

“I am, and I beg you will forgive it. My excuse is that your anger, fully experienced, might endanger your lifemate’s existence.”

She froze at that, and quickly ran the Pilot’s Rainbow, for inner calm.

Uncle smiled.

“Where is Daav?” she asked then, though her stomach clambered for one or even four of the pretty little sandwiches.

“He sleeps in a unit much like the one from which you have just now arisen. His danger is not so acute that you cannot eat. In fact, I must insist that you eat, Pilot. Your new situation is extremely efficient, but it does require sustenance. You must also re-acquaint yourself with food. Please.”

She sat, and he did. He poured tea into her cup, and into his. She thanked him with a nod, picked up one of the fish-shaped sandwiches and bit into it.

Sensation flooded her mouth, overwhelming all of her senses, whiting her vision. She may have cried out. When the flavors had faded, and she knew herself again, she reached for her cup—and thought better of it.

“You gave your word,” she said to Uncle.

“I did, and it is good. You are unharmed. You are also…new. It will take you some time to accommodate yourself to ordinary sensation. Please, Pilot. Drink your tea and have another sandwich. Your lifemate needs you strong and able.”

The tea was blessedly uncomplex, after which the second sandwich produced a lesser overload. She managed a third with hardly any interference at all, and drained her cup to the dregs.

“I will see Daav now,” she said, and the Uncle rose at once.

“This way, Pilot.”

* * * * *

The room was the twin of the room she had wakened in, dominated by what was perhaps
not
an autodoc, with a chair set in one corner, holding, as had the chair in her room, a simple set of ship clothes.

“You must understand,” Uncle said quietly, “that, in the case, we had material to work with, and thus he looks…
like himself
, you might say, though perhaps younger than you have known him. Yourself…” He looked down at her. “We used the vessel to hand—a
blank
, we term it. My experience is that you will eventually come to look more as you had done, previously, as the body takes its cues from the personality. I will tell you that
you
are fully transferred, and we experienced no difficulty whatsoever in the process. Your Daav, however…” He moved a hand, inviting her to step closer to the unit.

The unit with its red-lit readouts and—startlingly familiar—standard life-gauge, showing a blue bar hovering at well below half, a cat’s whisker above
non-viable
.

“He lives because I insist that he do so,” Uncle said quietly behind her. “If I withdraw my hand, he will die. Almost, he did die. It frightens me, how close he came.”

Stomach stone-cold, she turned to face him.

“Why do you care?”

“My dear Pilot Caylon, do you think that I wish to anger Korval by allowing the death of one of their treasured elders, when it lies within my power to preserve him? He can live. He can
want
to live. I think—I believe—that you can give him that.”

She swallowed, thinking. The air in this room tasted sharp, like ozone, and it cleared her head wonderfully.

“Did you wake him?” she asked.

Uncle bowed.

“I did, for he was ready first, and I saw that having him alert and informed for your own awakening would be to the benefit of all. Alas, I misjudged. No sooner had the lid risen then he cried out, and the readings plummeted.”

“You should not have waked him without me,” she said sharply. “I swore to him that I would not leave him alone. He would have felt my absence immediately and known that I was foresworn, and he, abandoned…”

She shook her head; deliberately relaxing hands that had curled into fists.

“But, there,” she said, more moderately. “You could not have known that, after all.”

She looked again at the status lights, reading death and disaster there.

“Wake him,” she said, not bothering to look at their host.

“Wake him, and then leave us.”

Chapter Thirty-One

Jelaza Kazone

Surebleak

He felt the regard of Eternity, and longed to embrace it.

No
, he told himself, and rolled over in the bed he shared with his lifemate, plumped the pillow, and closed his eyes, breathing deeply in a pilot’s relaxation exercise.

Golden threads glimmered behind his closed eyelids. His mouth went dry with longing.

Another breath, another exercise, this one meant to center one to a purpose. He assigned as his purpose a
restful sleep
, sighed—

And was bolt-upright in the next instant, a cry trapped between tongue and lips.

He was hot and shaking; his stomach roiling, and it would be
so easy
, only to allow himself to open his eyes in that other place, where all was perfect and orderly, and the life force of the universe flowed through him.

No
, he told himself again, but his resolve was weak. He needed all his defenses, now. He dared not weaken them by trying, again, to sleep.

He slid out of bed, listening—
not
reaching for the thread that bound them, but only…listening, with human ears, to the gentle sound of his lifemate, breathing.

At least he hadn’t wakened Anthora. There was no reason for both of them to go sleepless.

Silent on bare feet, he walked across their bedroom, plucking his robe up as he passed the chest at the bottom of the bed.

He slipped it on and tied the belt as he crossed their parlor to the door, slid it open and stepped out onto the patio.

Overhead, the sky displayed its sparse starfield, and Chuck-Honey lay low on the horizon. Below, the darkness was more liberally sprinkled with stars, as the night-bloomers opened. Beyond, the tree itself glowed, suffusing the pathways and the gloan-roses with a soft light.

Ren Zel breathed in, seeking virtue from the tree-informed air. And, indeed, a certain calmness fell upon him. Enough so he could put the compulsion at a distance, and think what he must do.

For he must do something. As easy as it would be, to succumb to compulsion, that choice was not open to him. Not yet.

He wished that he knew…when. How long, but, really—what matter? The compulsion was wily; it waited until he was at his most vulnerable, then offered itself. If—

“Ren Zel?”

He turned from the railing, heart-struck.

“Beloved, I did not mean to wake you!”

“And, yet, you are awake yourself.” She slipped onto the balcony, the collar of her rob askew, her sash half-tied, her hair sleep-tousled, and tumbling about her face and shoulders.

“Is it the compulsion again?” she asked him, slipping her hand into his, and pressing against his side.

He sighed.

“It is. I…doubt I am strong enough to withstand the universe.”

Anthora looked up at him, then over his shoulder to the garden, and the tree.

“It is recorded in the Diaries that, before the death of her body, Rool Tiazan’s lady anchored him to the world through her own essence.”

He stared at her, breath-caught at what she was suggesting.

“You would share the addiction. You would share my death, if it comes to that. Anthora—”

“I would share your life, for so long as you have it,” she interrupted sharply, and sighed, pressing even more tightly against him. “Beloved,” she said, her voice soft, now, “at least let us try.”

It would not answer. He knew—his gift, and the golden threads that tied everything together—
they
knew that he could destroy her with a thought. What was one woman’s life to a man who might unmake the universe?

And yet…she offered relief. A burden shared was a burden halved, after all.

Perhaps…perhaps it
would
answer.

For long enough.

He put his arms around her and lay his cheek against her warm, disordered hair.

“I am in your hands, Beloved. Do with me what you will.”

* * *

Rys had left them, having reviewed the dossiers of each of his four teammates. It had pleased him, to have a director among them; and pleased him even more to find what it was she had discovered.

“Brother, we will prevail,” he said, as they embraced.

“I do not doubt it,” he had answered, which had been, not quite, a lie.

Then Rys was gone, the car on its way down the drive, and Val Con weeping where he stood, in Surebleak’s wan sunshine, until he had shaken himself into order and come here, to the music room.

“Jeeves,” he said quietly. He was alone, and though he had seated himself on the bench behind the omnichora, he had not brought the instrument live.

“Yes, Master Val Con,” the butler’s voice emanated from the ceiling, which was well enough, Val Con thought, for this.

“I wonder,” he said, “why you chose to give Tocohl my foster-mother’s voice?”

There was a small hesitation, as if the question had surprised, which it may have done.

“It had been my observation, during the time I was privileged to know her,” Jeeves said slowly, “that Anne Davis was able to cast calm on, may I say—
overheated situations?
—merely by speaking. Analysis indicates that it was not necessarily the content of her comments—which was often quite commonplace—but the timbre and resonance of her voice. As Tocohl was specifically traveling into an overheated situation, I thought it best to give her a tried and tested tool.”

Another pause; this one very short.

“Have I offended, sir?”

Val Con sighed.

“No offense,” he said. “Merely, I was taken by surprise, and…made somewhat nostalgic. Thank you, Jeeves.”

He turned on the bench, and pressed the switch that brought the omnichora to life.

His fingers whispered gently over the keys, waking a wispy, whispering rendition of “Toccata and Fugue in D Minor,” on of his foster-mother’s favorite pieces. She had taught him to play the ’chora, and she had taught him all of her favorite pieces, as well as those which were not favorites, but which she granted a place in her repertoire for reasons nearly as convoluted as those that might accompany the placing of an entry into a Liaden debt book.

He would, he thought, teach Talizea to play, when she was older. If she showed an interest. He would teach her Anne’s favorite pieces and those which were not favorites, and he would tell her stories of her Terran grandmother, building onto those stories that Father and Mother would doubtless tell, of their clan-sister, who had been the first to stretch Korval’s boundaries, and make them…other…than merely Liaden.

For the story of their arrival on Surebleak began with Er Thom yos’Galan, who had brought a Terran lifemate into the house.

It was, Val Con thought, adjusting the stops and allowing the sound to build, a shame that Anne had not lived to see the clan’s relocation.

He thought she would have been amused.

* * *

“I am for the single strike, the target which we all know. That is surest, and we four can well encompass the task,” Bon Vit said.

“It is a flawed strategy,” Vazineth countered. “As we have seen. It leaves too many at large, with only their last orders to guide them. We must—”

“We must,” Sye Mon interrupted, “recall that we are all accustomed to working alone. There lies our strength. If a single strike is flawed, four coordinated strikes may…”

“Merely confound for a moment,” Claidyne spoke wearily. “We cannot eradicate the Department in four single strikes—not in forty. The eradication of the Department must be our goal. And that, my friends, can only be done from within the command center.”

“Four compromised agents, who had been held by Korval?” Bon Vit asked. “An Yxtrang has a better chance of infiltrating Command.”

“Not—” Claidyne began, and spun, dropping into a fighting crouch, as the door to their private parlor opened wide.

A man paused in the doorway to look at each of them in turn. He seemed quite ordinary, with a full head of curly black hair, and wearing the same dark sweater and tough canvas pants as the rest of them. He had a leather bag slung over one shoulder, and when he saw that they had seen him, and that those who had been ready to fight had relaxed, he finished his entrance, letting the door swing closed behind him.

Gently, he bowed to the room, and straightened, hands where they could both be seen. One was broad and business-like; the other a graceful confection of woven golden metals.

“I am Rys Lin pen’Chala,” he said, in the mode of Comrade. He had an outworld accent, though which outworld was not immediately apparent. “I had been a senior field agent. Now, I am my own man, and I wish, as was said a moment gone, for the eradication of the Department. It was I who gave Korval the means to free you to yourselves.”

None doubted him. None
could
doubt him, seeing him there, with the mark of the Department on him, plain enough for those who suffered likewise to see.

“There are
five
of us?” Bon Vit demanded.

Rys Lin pen’Chala turned slightly to face him.

“There are six of us. The sixth remains apart, to act as diversion, and to stand as the last hope of our children, should we five fail of a successful completion.”

“We will not fail!” said Sye Mon, and Rys Lin pen’Chala smiled gently upon him.

“So I believe, as well,” he said, and moved forward, to set his case upon a table, and to sit down in one of the several chairs.

“Come,” he said, “sit with me and let us hear what each has in our minds.”

“You have already heard it,” Claidyne said, realizing now that he had been in the doorway for some time before he had allowed them to perceive him.

“I had heard some of it, but I would like to hear all,” he said, and moved his golden hand, showing her the chair nearest him.

“Come, sit down. Let us talk together.”

They hesitated. Then Bon Vit came forward, shoving a chair near to the newcomer, and sat down.

“Bon Vit Onida,” he said, with a nod.

“Vazineth ser’Trishan,” she said, placing the second chair at Bon Vit’s right.

“Sye Mon van’Kie.” His chair went next to Vazineth, and there was only one chair remaining, at Rys Lin pen’Chala’s left, which he had already marked for hers.

Claidyne sat, keeping herself centered. She met his space-black eyes and inclined her head.

“Claidyne ven’Orikle,” she said shortly.

“Yes,” he answered, with a small smile. He looked ’round the circle, and nodded to Bon Vit.

“If you please, let us hear your plan.”

“I have the coordinates for Secondary Headquarters,” Bon Vit said promptly. “A concerted, serious strike there will destroy the Commander and the base.” He sat back and nodded to Vazineth.

“A single strike—” she began, and stopped when Rys Lin pen’Chala moved his gleaming hand.

“Plans first, if you please. Discussions after. There is no shame, if you do not have a plan, merely allow the topic to go to the next in circle.”

Vazineth sighed.

“I have no plan,” she said, and looked at Sye Mon.

“My plan is similar to Bon Vit’s,” he said, “only I have the recall codes for the old machines that have been deployed. Once they are gathered in one place, we may destroy them.”

Rys nodded and looked to Claidyne.

She took a breath, glance ’round the circle, and felt the familiar urge to hide her knowledge from all of them, and most especially from herself.

The utter destruction of the Department
, she reminded herself.
That is your last and your only desire.

She took another breath, and looked up, seeking Rys Lin pen’Chala’s eyes. He did not look away, he did not urge her to speak. He only waited, calm and quiet.

His calmness eased her; she inclined her head and spoke.

“I have the location of the quaternary transfer point. I have the entry codes. We can replace the current Commander of Agents with…one of our number. We can do an orderly shut down of the network, disperse the operatives, and destroy the subsidiary command points.”