Venus of Dreams (23 page)

Mary had a bond, even though Her Child was not Her mate's. Some Linkers have bonds. Some Linkers don't even have children as we do, and follow the ways of Habbers, who take the embryo from the mother and put it aside until it's ready to be born. Why shouldn't I be able to do the same? Why should my belly swell until the time when the pains start? Why should I be turned into a womb for nine months?

Why should I follow my customs instead of others'? Why can't I live as I want to instead of the way others think is best?

She could ask all the questions she wanted to, and that would not change how she felt. Her decision would separate her from those she knew even before she left this town, if she ever left. Maybe her mother wouldn't drive her away. Maybe she would only force Chen to leave, and would keep Iris here, imprisoned. A specialist could be called. Those in other Nomarchies might follow different ways because Earth, knowing how stultifying too much uniformity could be, had encouraged cultural diversity. But the Mukhtars and Linkers could not afford too many nonconformists within each realm; such people could be dangerous and create tensions. A specialist could find ways to bend Iris to her mother's will.

None of that mattered. Without Chen, she would have no chance to leave the Plains, no way of reaching the Islands.

Iris pressed her cheek against Chen's shoulder. She cared for him; she would be unhappy if she never saw him again. But her feelings for him would never have brought her to this, even if they had been as strong as his own. It was only the promise he had made, that he would take her to the Islands with him, that had convinced her. Perhaps Chen loved that dream even more than he loved her. If he had to choose between them, she was sure she knew what his choice would he.

I love you in my own way, she thought, but I don't love you enough. You're only my way out. She closed her eyes, feeling tears well up under her lids.

Iris and Chen entered the common room. Constance looked up expectantly; LaDonna opened her mouth, as if about to speak. Tyree was sprawled on the floor, playing with a pocket puzzle while his sister Mira watched.

"Well?" LaDonna said. "What's the story? What did Letty say?"

"I'm pregnant," Iris announced.

Constance beamed. "Wonderful!" The blond woman lifted her glass. "Very quick work, I must say," She grinned at Chen, who lowered his eyes, embarrassed but proud. "Oh, I hope I can start a child next year, give yours a playmate. You never told us—did you choose a boy or a girl?"

"A boy," Chen replied. Iris had talked him into that, insisting that he have the injection that would ensure it. He had argued for a daughter until Iris had pointed out that leaving with a daughter, a possible heir to the farm, would only cause her mother even more pain.

"I must have a daughter, then," Constance replied. "I wanted one anyway. A girl will always be with me." She arched her brows. "They'll have a lot of fun together, I'm sure."

"Come here," Wenda said from the corner. Chen led Iris over to the old woman. He was nervous around Wenda, often wondering if she could see his thoughts; he had heard of her reputation as a seer. She was a little like him; her eyes saw what others did not.

Wenda put her gnarled hands on Iris's abdomen. "I usually tell a fortune before a child is born," she explained to Chen, "and another after it's born. Let's see what your child has to tell me." She closed her eyes for a moment, then opened them, glancing from Chen's face to Iris. "He will wander. That I can tell you."

Iris's mouth twisted. "Most men wander. You're telling me what everyone knows."

"But this one will wander far, so far that I cannot see where his path leads."

Chen fidgeted, feeling foolish for having feared Wenda's words. A half-empty bottle of whiskey stood on the small table with Wenda's glass; the old woman was sodden with drink. She would say nothing of interest.

"You haven't told us much," Chen said lightly.

"He will wander far, but he may return." The wrinkles around her eyes deepened as she squinted. "Now I must speak of the mother. I see a destination hidden by clouds, covered in darkness. Iris is walking toward it and the child is with her. The clouds are thick. Iris is looking for something, thinking she'll find it when the clouds lift." Iris started; Chen grabbed her hand. "Beware of your dream. It will lead you away from all that you love."

Iris choked out a laugh. "What nonsense," she said. Chen noticed that her hand was shaking.

"Where's Angharad?" he asked quickly.

"In her room," LaDonna answered, "going over the accounts."

Chen tugged at Iris. "We should tell her." Iris's eyes widened. "Now," he finished.

"Beware," Constance intoned. "Wenda, I think you're losing your touch. I never heard you give a prophecy like that before."

Iris and Chen hurried from the room. When they were halfway up the stairs, Iris halted and leaned against the railing. "She knows," she whispered.

"She doesn't. It's just an old woman's babbling. Come on."

"I can't. I can't do this to my mother."

"We have to tell her. You don't have to say much—I'll talk to her. You know what we agreed. It'll be over soon. It won't be as bad as you think." He hoped he was right.

Angharad watched her screen, listening as a voice chanted amounts that had been spent and what the credit had bought. Angharad had only a shaky grasp of numbers, which, past a certain point, blurred into indistinct quantities almost impossible to understand, but she had some knowledge of the charts that accompanied the recitation. Yes, the blue line still exceeded the red; the farm was doing well. The image changed as she listened to projected crop yields and stared at other lines. Even with a mediocre yield, they would still be ahead after the next harvest. But credit did no one any good sitting around unused. Perhaps she could add a room or two to the house, prepare for the next generation that was now sure to come.

That thought, instead of cheering her, made her pensive. Angharad blinked, staring at the screen without seeing what was there. The inexplicable sadness that sometimes gripped her was reaching out for her again; that was happening too often lately, especially when she was alone. It was easier to keep the dark thoughts at bay in the company of people, even with the strain of maintaining a decisive manner in front of others. Alone, she could wear no mask. Sometimes, the sadness even drove her to prayer—not the usual prayers, which she rattled off automatically, but the heartfelt ones that an old woman doing penance for the many sins of youth might have uttered.

Angharad feared for the future of her line. Sometimes, when she was alone in bed waiting for the whiskey inside her to bring sleep, she saw that line narrowing farther until there were no descendants at all.

She had always known how unwillingly Julia had returned to Lincoln. Julia had been as distant as a mother could be on the Plains, and had left much of Angharad's upbringing to her own mother, Gwen. Angharad had grown up under Julia's cold gaze determined to elicit some warmth from that chilly presence; she had wanted Julia's love instead of her resentment. Angharad had not even been twenty when Julia had finally turned the farm over to her; she had believed then that the gesture was Julia's way of showing faith in her daughter, and that the older woman had come to feel some contentment at last.

But Julia, she saw now, had never cared about the farm; she had simply not wanted to be bothered with it any longer. She had let Angharad shoulder the burden; even worse, she had filled Iris's head with silly ideas and had encouraged the girl along a path that made Angharad's own life, lived for her daughter and the farm, seem useless.

Their line had sprung from the ashes of a nearly ruined world. Tribes that had roamed the Plains in ancient times, and farmers who had fed the world even before the rise of the Mukhtars, had been among Angharad's ancestors. The world had not been able to destroy them, and their ability to survive had showed their strength.

But Angharad could see the future in the bits of data her screen and band conveyed to her. The world needed fewer fanners with each passing generation; the Mukhtars, through the Counselors and their advice, were pruning the branches of many Plains lines. Fewer farmers grew up to replace the old; even in Lincoln, a few farms had combined households, had merged into one commune, with a few of their lines coming to an end at last.

A time might come when Lincoln would be no more than greenhouses, hydroponic vats, glass cases of cloned animal tissue, and reapers powered by cyberminds. A way of life would end, and the world would not mourn it. Angharad had seen what might be coming, and had tried to deny it.

Her limbs were heavy; her body seemed welded to her chair. She could not rise; she could not will herself to rise. She was empty, her body no more than a shell around nothingness. At such times, when her black thoughts claimed her, she thought of her grandmother Gwen.

Gwen had died too soon. She had died in a foolish accident on the stairs, too drunk to see where she was stepping; she had died alone as the household slept. Angharad had found her body in the hallway below; it had been too late to summon the physician, too late to mend the broken body. They had blamed the mishap on a loose step, but Angharad knew the truth; Gwen had sought oblivion in one way, and had found it in another. She could still see Gwen's pale, sightless eyes and twisted neck. Perhaps Gwen had endured dark thoughts that had driven her to drink; perhaps she had glimpsed the future of the Plains in Julia's cold gaze.

Angharad sighed, thinking of her household. Lilia was too passive to lead a commune; she would give up any leadership too easily, would perhaps even merge this household with another. Then there was her distant cousin Sheryl, always waiting for some encouragement from the Counselor to have a child but never receiving it. And now there was Iris, who seemed to care less about the farm than Julia did.

Angharad, in spite of her faith, had her doubts about the life beyond the grave. She would have to live on in her descendants, in the line that would follow her. She could not let the world erase her from its memory; she could not endure the thought of leaving no one to remember her and the countless generations that had preceded her.

A knock sounded at her door; it opened as Chen and Iris entered. Angharad turned off the screen as her lips formed a smile. "Enough for today," she said, hoping that the two would tell her what she wanted to hear. "Well, what do you have to say for yourselves?" She lifted a brow, then lowered her eyes to Iris's belly.

"I'm pregnant," Iris said, "with a boy."

Angharad felt a twinge of disappointment. No matter, she thought; a daughter could follow later. Iris would want one; Angharad would see that she did. The child would keep Iris from her studies and Angharad would be able to reassert her influence.

"I'm so pleased," Angharad said as she clapped her hands together. "And so soon. Oh, my dear."

"Letty said it would be born at the beginning of September," Iris said tonelessly as she sat down on the bed; Chen seated himself next to her. "She'll do another scan and analysis in a month, but she doesn't expect to find anything that needs to be repaired. She gave me something to take for my stomach."

Angharad perched on the edge of the chair; she was steady now, her smile firmly in place, her dark thoughts pushed aside. "You could look a little happier about it, Iris. This is one of the most wonderful things you'll ever experience. I'm a little sorry that you didn't choose a girl, but you can have one later on." She clung to that hope. She was the mayor, after all. The Counselor could not discourage Iris from giving a woman of such influence a granddaughter, especially if Angharad herself was to be denied another child of her own. That would be too upsetting to the town as a whole, and the Nomarchies prized stability. "And you shouldn't wait too long for the next. Oh, I must find Julia and give her the news." That, Angharad thought, would be particularly satisfying.

Chen said, "There's something else we have to tell you."

Angharad leaned back. The tone of the young man's voice disturbed her. She had, during household gatherings, noted the hard and determined look that sometimes came into his otherwise calm and inexpressive face. She had been reassured by that hint of inner strength, for Chen was usually so quiet that she had, for a brief time, wondered if he might be half-witted or weak. His oddly shaped eyes were hard now.

She glanced at Iris. Her daughter was looking equally as determined, but her green eyes held a trace of fear. Angharad was suddenly afraid; Iris had looked like that when she first spoke to Angharad about her lessons.

"It's hard to say this," Chen went on. "I've been happy in this house, and you've been kind to me. I don't want to lose your good will." His throat moved as he swallowed. Angharad tried not to fidget; if this matter involved her daughter, then Iris should have been speaking for herself. "I want to know—I would like to be your daughter's bondmate."

Angharad's mouth dropped open. This was so totally unexpected that she could hardly speak. She clutched at her throat. "Bondmate?" she rasped. "Did you agree to this, Iris?"

Iris nodded.

"I know what you think," Chen said hastily, "that I've deceived you." Angharad's ears throbbed as her heart pounded; she could hardly make out his words. "It's just that my ways are different from yours. I can't have my child come into the world without having a bond with Iris—it goes against what I believe. My people value their bonds with their families, with fathers as well as mothers." This, Angharad thought dimly, was news to her. She had never heard Chen mention his parents and had assumed that he was indifferent to them. "My bond wouldn't just be with Iris, but with my child too."

Angharad sagged, resting her cheek against her hand. "A bond needs only two witnesses," Iris said. "No one else has to know."

Angharad glared at her daughter. This was what Iris's studies had taught her, that she could do whatever she liked with no regard for custom or decency. "The Counselor will find out," she said. "Don't you think he'll see the contract?"