by Ann Maxwell
The illusionist bowed wryly. “Scorched, blistered and frightened out of the few illusions I had left, but alive—thanks to your advice and the inexhaustible Redis plumbing.” His smile faded as he looked down at the Ecstasy Stones glowing with innocent goodwill. “I’m dividing them into six piles, one for each island city. Serriolia’s Stones will be divided equally among the surviving clans.”
He waited, but no one disagreed. He bent over and began methodically sorting Stones. One by one, other illusionists came to help.
Rheba watched for a moment, then turned away. She had seen enough Ecstasy Stones for this or any other Cycle. Besides, she suspected that where there were Stones, there were Ghosts. She did not want to stand around and accidentally inhale one of the itchy devils.
She looked around quickly but saw nothing more she could do. The Ecstasy Stones were quiescent. The illusionists were home again, as safe as anyone in Serriolia. At the spaceport the Devalon waited, bulging with hopeful slaves. It was time to hold another lottery, redeem another promise, deliver more former slaves to their unique and uncertain futures.
And it was time to get on with her own future, time to find other survivors of Deva, time to find a new planet where Bre’ns and Senyasi could build a new life from the ashes of the old. She looked at the tall man beside her. Her fingertips savored the unique textures of his arm.
“Ready?” she asked softly.
He bent over and drank his dancer’s sweet-hot fire. “Yes.”
As they turned to leave, f’lTiri approached. I’sNara clung to his arm. Their youngest children trailed behind. He bowed formally to her and covered himself with his most obsequious illusion.
“We would like to go with you. Our clan is dead. There’s nothing but illusions for us in Serriolia now. And,” f’lTiri smiled faintly, “as you might have noticed, we were born with more than our share of illusions.”
Surprise flickered in Rheba’s akhenet lines.
“If there isn’t enough room for all of us,” said i’sNara quickly, “we’ll wait until the lottery brings you back this way.” She watched Rheba intently, trying but failing to conceal her eagerness beneath an illusion of indifference.
Rheba looked at the three children. All wore the same expression of burnished innocence. She tried to imagine what life on board the Devalon would be like with three little illusionists popping in and out of reality. She sighed and smiled crookedly. At least her Ghost no longer haunted her. “I already have a zoolipt, a Zaarain construct and a Fssireeme—who am I to choke on three small illusions?”
“Welcome home,” said Kirtn, smiling at the Yhelles. Then he added with a poet’s pragmatism, “Where we’re going, a few illusions might come in handy.”
“Where are we going?” asked the smallest illusion.
“I don’t know,” admitted the Bre’n.
“Then getting there will be very difficult.”
Rheba leaned against Kirtn and laughed weakly. Getting there was never the problem for dancer and Bre’n. Getting out alive was.
“Doesn’t anybody know where we’re going?” asked the child plaintively.
“Nobody knows,” began Rheba, then groaned and rubbed her eyes.
“What’s wrong?” asked Kirtn, pulling her close to him.
“My Ghost is back. It knows where we’re going.”
“Wonder if we’ll be safe there,” whistled the Bre’n, a sardonic twist to the notes.
Rheba’s eyes itched furiously, telling her more than she wanted to know.
