by C. N Lesley
“The absence of a feeling can cause as much discomfort as the presence. Your body language suggests you are either not afraid of punishment, or you have ceased to care.”
“Does it matter which?” Arthur pushed back his hood, wondering at the absence of security, those ordinary people employed for night guarding. Most displayed an overzealous urgency, as if to elevate themselves into the ranks of the special by constant attempts to gain attention. He wanted this over quickly so he still had time to plan his future.
“Any individual choosing an unusual course of action is a source of concern. What motivates that individual is important. Come closer, Arthur. I need you to link.” The Archive opened a port to release a metallic, snakelike appendage that wavered, swaying on the anchor of its roots.
“I’m not a full seer yet, I’m not trained for linkage.” Arthur moved sideways to the door, but it remained shut.
“Security is not about to arrive, nor is that door going to open. I can access data from a conscious or an unconscious mind, Arthur.”
A radiant force field behind and to both sides of Arthur pushed against him, moving inward by degrees to compel him to the console. Beaten, he edged over to sit in the chair, brushing his hair behind his ear to give the umbilicus easy access to the comm-link implant in his skull. A tingling invaded his body followed by a huge outrush, like cold water gushing inside him.
I see the concern you are hiding, the Archive supplied directly to his mind. No, Evegena, in her capacity as seer matriarch, would not punish you by sending bad dreams. She has no imagination. What she will do is enforce celibacy while you are an acolyte if you continue to withhold viability when visiting the brood mothers. She will not let you treat such a serious subject as recreation. As for not wanting to become an initiate, you will change your mind if you see the surface world. It is a wild and primitive place, unsuited for one such as yourself.
“I won’t be a stud for them. I won’t inflict my life on another.” He didn’t want to create others to live his artificial life, and sometimes imagined his unknown sire and dam coming together as strangers. Perhaps the elders had many specialized breeding programs to create the ultimate telepath? That thought made him feel like an old shoe, one awaiting a better, smarter replacement as soon as production improved.
Nor would you inflict your dreams on potential individuals, since the first part of your real question is already answered. I agree, the dreams may be due to psi-factor. The Archive paused, probing. You have not undergone a rated psi-level test in the last six years.
“Going to report that?” Deeps, if the elders found out they would try to force him to stand stud forever. He’d rather die.
Dreams are a means of release when escape from routine is otherwise impossible. The Outcast makes an excellent study example for this project. She is compatible to the primitive landscape of your dreams both by reason of her own natural environment, and by factor of her estimated psi-level.
“How can I know what the surface world smells like? I have read everything the seers will allow acolytes to know of the primitive outside without finding such a description.” Why was the Archive allowing this exchange? Was he going to get away with his raid for data? He couldn’t be this lucky.
Recreation of a different nature is best, the Archive advised, projecting a holo image of the Outcast, a young woman of medium height wearing an Elite uniform.
She had a look of death on her lovely face, some indefinable expression creating a chilling warning. Arthur studied the form. He’d never seen her likeness before, or been in a group allowed outside Sanctuary any time she visited Avalon. She looked so calm in this image, and yet she had started the war. Curling blonde hair outlined her face like a helmet. Under a short nose, her lips pressed together to form a harsher line than nature intended. Her eyes held him; their violet depths seemed to see into a distance filled with stark choices. This one factor confirmed her as a Terran Outcast from the surface world . . . they all bore the sort of gaze that made others think they could stare through rock.
In answer to your original question, pertaining to the part she played in starting this war, projection suggests 73.95 percent probability factor. One such individual affects ten more, who affect another ten on an expanding scale. Given the mobility of this subject, these statistics are exponential.
He knew she had interacted with many others, but not how, in the eighteen years since she had first joined forces with Avalon. Arthur wanted all the data downloaded on a portable tablet, since it seemed he might get away with his transgression.
Arthur, you will not be able to move in a few moments. Do not be alarmed. For a time setting of one standard unit, there will be full sensory playback of this subject’s life.
Arthur struggled to free himself from the chair and dislodge the umbilicus. He fought to block the thought waves, and all the memories flooding into his mind. Acolytes never linked to the Archive for sensory playback. Only full seers possessed the training to meld in this fashion without becoming addicted, condemned to spend what remained of their lives in endless repetition of the recorded existence of another. No, please not this. Anything but this.
His body failed to respond; his trance deepened as blended memory pattern settings unfolded in chronological order. For one nerve-shearing moment, soulless black eyes stared at him from the reflective surface of the console, and then reality lurched sideways into a different dimension as time reversed.
Chapter 2
Earth Date 3874
Uther, duke of Tadgell, signaled a halt at the edge of a wood with a stretch of grassland ahead. Thick dawn mist rose under a ruddy sun, giving the air a look of blood-tinged water. Sounds of movement distorted and magnified . . . of harness and hooves. A beat expanded into rhythmic thuds, the throb of a full gallop of a madman racing in mist over uneven ground. He backed his mount into deeper cover as the steady pound of hooves grew louder.
A horse and rider burst through the light-charged wetness, soaring over a low stone wall. The rider’s laugh lingered in the rushing breeze long after her passage. As she rode the air, sunlight reflected against her bronze cuirass. Radiance made her flowing golden hair glow red and turned the animal’s snow-white coat to molten silver before they vanished, shrouded by a sheet of mist, the drumming hooves fading.
A War Maid, riding without an escort, at a breakneck pace in poor visibility. His skin crawled with the fear he’d had another vision, for no ruler let female kin out alone. He turned, intent on pressing forward, to see night-colored eyes staring at him from the bark of an oak tree. Even as he reached for his sword, they disappeared.
A quick glance at his men, hidden deeper in the thicket, showed alert warriors, but not ones who saw a cause for concern. Another premonition after five years of peace, and why now, when he had no intention of going near Gold Band women, particularly War Maids?
*
Ashira rode into the natural gorge encasing her father’s fort. The two narrow entrances to this valley ensured Menhill was impregnable, deterring even the flying lizards where limited wing-space wrecked their hunting.
A patrol approached, heading out to the main trail. Twenty riders drew near wearing brown tabards with sable, couchant polecats quartered with a single ram’s head on their heraldic devices. One man in mismatched clothing rode rearguard. She guessed they tracked something dangerous, a mutation or a predator saurian, for an Outcast to be included. Ashira’s curiosity stirred at the sight of this man. No, not man . . . creature. Sinners lost human status after the priest changed the color of their wristband to black. His expression was grimly fitting for a man with no home, no family and not even a name any longer.
As if aware of her scrutiny, he reined in his mount to circle around her. Light stubble peppered his cheeks and chin. Copper-colored hair hung in greasy waves to his shoulders. Violet eyes, a shade matching her own, raked over her. An old scar bit into his skin to weave from one eyebrow to the edge of his mouth, spoiling a handsome face. Hi
s once-rich clothes of gray leather and cream linens had patches, scuffs and dirt marks, and the breeze flapped the ragged green cloak at his shoulders. His one brown boot and one black cried of hardship, yet a fierce light kindled in the deep-set eyes. Ashira shuddered.
“Look well . . . sister.” The voice rasped with disuse, chilling, flat, and made with effort. “You’re coming within . . . my grasp soon.”
“A raid?” Outcasts never lied when they struggled to talk past the vocal damage inflicted at the time of sentencing. “Speak, Black Band, or I’ll have you questioned by our priest.” Her brother always said these death-mongers considered themselves outside the concerns of humanity, caring for nothing except the thrill of battle-frenzy. Which fort threatened Menhill, since the Outcast thought to have her as his payment from the spoils? How dare he!
The Outcast rose up in his stirrups, made a sweeping bow in her direction, far too graceful for any former Bronze or Silver Band. “Not Brethren business . . . as yet. I see a shadow . . . hanging over you. Keep those blades keen . . . War Maid.”
“You dare to threaten me?” Ashira rested her hand on the pommel of her sword. He’d never take her alive.
He smiled, blowing her a kiss before wheeling his mount to gallop after the other riders.
A gray cloud crept over the sun. In the distance, a priest had children sitting outside in a semicircle, chanting morning prayers to the Harvesters. A sharp crack of the whip sounded, followed by a squeal of pain when the youngest misremembered. Ashira looked away, torn between disgust at the brutality and fear of her blasphemous thought that the priest enjoyed beating children. A shudder ran through her. Even her father, the king, couldn’t help her if she angered the priest.
A wild merlin spiraled down with some bedraggled mess in his talons; a male bird, his bluish-gray back shimmering as he landed. The pair nested high up the gorge on a ledge created by a shaft mirroring natural light into the inner chambers. What would he think if he knew she could see each small fledgling from her room? Secure in his lofty position, he was unaware the place he had chosen resembled a wasp’s nest beyond the outer shell, riddled with chambers, passages and halls.
Such a large and prosperous fort, and she shared her father’s fierce pride in his domain. Why then did he dislike her so? Was it transferred loathing for Ashira’s mother, the long dead second Queen of Menhill? This attitude of King Hald’s was clear from the way he treated her half-brother and sister: Kieran, the all-important male heir and the eldest, then Syril, their father’s favorite, and Ashira’s responsibility to guard, the reason she must be a War Maid.
The last traces of exhilaration from the morning ride faded upon entering a ground level stable-cavern. A groom stepped forward to hold Storm for Ashira to dismount. She liked to tend to her own horse but must now stand aside for others to perform the task, after receiving her gold wristband in the ceremony marking her of the highest caste.
Horn calls from the heights warned of traders approaching. Ashira hurried into the fort to bathe and change. With peaceful company coming, she needed to dress modestly – not that she expected to see any of the travellers, but just in case they spotted her about her duties.
Once back in her own room, Ashira frowned at the sight of her hair. The untidy blonde curls, windswept from her ride, needed braiding. She had just finished weaving it into a coronet, pinned tight against her head when Kayla, aged servant to the women’s quarters, shuffled into her room.
“His Majesty wants you in the audience chamber at once,” the crone mumbled. Excited that punishment for Ashira was in the offing; a runnel of saliva wove down the network of lines crinkling her mouth.
That made three times this year King Hald had learned she rode out beyond her limits against his orders. She reached for a plain gray dress with long sleeves. Maybe he didn’t know of her ride, but she laced up a pair of sturdy sandals for better balance in case of a whipping, despite the extra seconds this cost her. Before she could affix the face veil required for going into a general area in the presence of strangers, she lost her grip of the slippery fabric when Kayla tugged on her sleeve. No time to pick it up off the floor. He became more brutal when he had to wait longer than expected. Her back still hurt from his last rage.
“He said now. Leave it.” Kayla led the way to the audience chamber where she bowed, to shuffle away before any more orders robbed her of time dozing beside a fire.
Her father, seated on a dais at the far end of the vast cavern, appeared flustered. His crown sat crooked, leaving his gray hair protruding from under the rim at one side. He wore a brown tunic over beige hose, his formal attire for important occasions. Kieran stood behind and to the right; her brother’s straight red hair framed a sharp face that made Ashira think of foxes. His presence meant this wasn’t a simple whipping for riding unattended, so what did her father want of her?
Hald’s brittle smile reached his eyes without kindness. Every instinct warned her not to speak. Years of his indifference peeled away to reveal a single glimpse of loathing mixed with some expression akin to pleasure. Today, her father was a dangerous stranger. Icy fingers played over her flesh, raising each hair on her neck.
“Did you enjoy your ride?” her stranger-father enquired.
“Storm needed exercise.” Damn, he knew.
“You could not wait for an escort, or stay in sight of the fort? You decided to risk Syril’s safety by leaving her unprotected with an Outcast in Menhill. You were trained to guard her. Did you give no thought as to why I hired this creature?” Her father smiled.
“I learned of the Outcast’s presence on my return.” Ashira glanced at Kieran, trying to gain some clue from him. He had his gaze fixed on some far distance. Was this to be another whipping, or worse, loss of her horse?
“Had you chosen to obey my orders you would have known of the potential threat to Menhill, as well as why I employed an Outcast.”
“Syril never . . . ” Ashira bit back the rest of her excuse when his hand rose to silence her. She tried to swallow in a sand-dry mouth. Her heart pounded.
He raised his hand again in signal, and the tramp of feet sounded. Hald opened his other hand to reveal the crumpled scrap of a face veil, which he shook out to flick almost within her reach. Something heavy thumped down behind her, sending an echo booming in the great hall, but she kept her eyes focused on the face of her terrifying, stranger-father.
“Welcome, Traders,” Hald said, his tone couched as a quiet threat.
A stolen glance behind revealed five strangers. Kayla hadn’t warned her that these men would have an audience at once. Ashira didn’t care if they saw her in uniform, but wearing this gown without a face veil, and unable to blend into the background like a Silver Band woman, embarrassed her. She knelt at her father’s feet, her eyes fixed on that waving scrap of cloth outside her reach.
“I am in need of ore,” Hald continued to flick the fabric near enough to torment her. “I am told yours is of good quality, but I am not certain I can trade for this much. What did you want in exchange?”
“The cattle of this region yield high quality milk,” a deep voice answered from behind Ashira. “We will barter for four proven female breeders and one bull.”
“It is true our beasts are valuable, so you understand their worth will be hard to match?” His lips stretched with a half-smile.
“The ore in exchange for one bull and four heifers, we will take our chances on fertility,” the man with the deep voice offered.
She wondered at his sudden concession. He sounded relaxed, as if he didn’t care whether he traded his valuable ore. What was she doing here while her father conducted his business?
“I can’t spare enough cattle for a fair exchange.” Hald’s voice dripped pleasure. “However, I can supply other breeding stock of a sort you need, so I conclude these parcels of copper are meant as a bride price. My youngest daughter, Ashira, is six years into her second decade. Do you agree to the match?” The king gave a hand signal to his guard
s. A precise rustle sounded as they drew their swords in a unified threat to the strangers. Hald meant to keep the ore.
Ashira forgot how to breathe, unable to believe her father’s decree. She turned at an angry rumble to catch a glimpse of four blank-tabarded soldiers surrounding one tall, black-clad man with a thundercloud expression. Outnumbered five to one, they faced bad odds in a fight.
“Did you really think I knew you not? Still hesitating? Doubtless overwhelmed by the honor,” the king said, taunting them. “I will hear your consent, my lord.” The trap snapped shut around the outmaneuvered men, echoing in the high-roofed hall like the dull thud of a coffin lid.
“Agreed.” The dark man’s voice grated. “I’m leaving now, Hald. Tell your men to stand aside.”
“You all heard and witnessed?” Hald’s smug tone aimed at his soldiers and Kieran, sealing the marriage. A roar of assent shook the air. He dragged Ashira to her feet, sending her reeling into the midst of angry, cheated men.
Strong arms caught her before she fell, dragging her along as the strangers made a swift retreat. This couldn’t be happening. This wasn’t real. Ashira was bundled astride a horse with the man mounted behind her, his arm like a band of steel round her waist when he spurred his steed to a gallop. The drumming of hooves echoed as the gorge that housed Menhill rushed past.
My father traded me. This thought went round and round in Ashira’s head like a mad moth attracted to torchlight – traded away for a few parcels of ore, so he could keep his precious cattle. Why did he hate her so?
This morning’s premonition took form. Outcasts lived so close to death some people believed they could see beyond the gray veil of time. Did Copperhead’s vision include his own death when he said he would have her? Did he mean they would meet in one of the seven hells? Ashira didn’t need foresight to guess her own fate. This ruler, forced into an unwanted union, would not show weakness to his fort by letting her live. Death it was then, but she’d fight through this hell for a chance to gain the Harvester’s golden afterlife. But only those who died at peace with themselves reached the promised heaven; she needed to close off every bad thought this day.
