"I expect it."
"And you have a plan to deal with them?"
"My plan is to find proof that they are enemies of shaauri, and expose them."
"You think you can accomplish this on your own."
"At least it will be my choice. No one will steal that from me again."
Cynara returned to the cockpit and spent the hours en route to the next wormhole cursing herself for believing, if only for a moment, that Ronan would allow her to save him.
He didn't know she'd planned to accompany him to the Shaauriat from the moment they'd left Persephone. Lord Miklos had hoped she wouldn't, but he was no fool. He and Carter VelShaan had taken the necessary precautions in case she chose to do so.
It was clear to Cynara that Ronan would rather die than continue to live among his adopted people as an outcast, and there were certainly those in the Shaauriat who would oblige his wishes. Only one thing might compel him to fight for himself, and that was her presence at his side. She must either convince him to take her with him, or take the decision out of his hands.
Cynara tried to rest in the pilot's seat until the next alarm sounded. She took the yacht through the wormhole, laid in the course for the final leg, and then went looking for Ronan.
He had gone aft to examine the lifepod that was to carry him through the final wormhole into the Shaauriat. The pod had been designed for two passengers, with room for a third if necessity dictated. In effect, it was almost a miniature starship with the capacity to travel a certain distance under its own power.
Ronan was stretched out on one of the reclining seats, familiarizing himself with the overhead control panel. Cynara poked her head inside the hatch and wormed into the second seat.
"I have to talk to you," she said.
"Are we approaching the border?"
"Soon." There was so little extra room for movement that she brushed his arm or side with every shift of position. Each touch increased her sense of urgency. "Ronan, look at me."
He turned his head. His gaze was direct, unafraid, and filled with sorrow. "Aho'Va."
"Stop it. Don't treat me like some kind of distant superior you wouldn't dare to touch."
"You are still angry. Would it not be better if we parted in friendship?"
"Friendship, Poseidon's balls." She grasped his arm and pulled him about to face her. "I have no intention of letting you go back to the shaauri alone."
"You must. I cannot allow—"
"You stiff-rumped, landlocked… Haven't you realized by now that I love you?"
He went very still. 'This is not wise, Cynara."
"No. It's not wise at all." She waited for his answer, knowing she hadn't the slightest idea how he would respond. Yet she was strangely at peace with herself. Nothing he said could hurt her, for she saw her path clearly, more clearly than at any other time in her ineffectually rebellious life.
"It is not possible," he said, pushing her hand away. "You would be regarded as an enemy among my people, and by the Kinsmen most of all."
"I'm not as defenseless as you think."
"I am the Challinors' enemy, Cynara. I will not betray my House and Line."
"I'm not asking you to choose. I'm only demanding the right to protect the life I saved at considerable cost on the day you left the shaauri."
"Protect." He laughed with an edge of cruelty. "Protect me from your enemies?"
She seized the hair at the nape of his neck. "You owe me. You deceived me and my crew, and by Scylla's teeth I'm not letting you do it again." Dragging his head down to hers, she kissed him, biting into his lower lip.
There was no question of stopping. Ronan ground his mouth against hers with equal savagery, and in moments they were wrestling out of their shipsuits in the pod's cramped quarters, flailing arms and legs and frantic caresses.
Cynara sat astride him, thighs pressed to his hips. She plunged down, swallowed him up, and began to ride him without mercy. But he did not allow her to finish. With that remarkable strength that could still surprise her, he braced his feet on the deck and stood, carrying her with him. He held her impaled and neatly laid her back on the adjoining seat, fully reclining it without interrupting the flow of his motion.
She wrapped her legs around his waist and let him set the new rhythm. When he slowed to kiss her, she drew him back. They had to stay together, be together every moment, in every way.
"Cynara," he whispered, half groan. She locked her hands behind his neck and pulled his head into the crook of her shoulder. His breath scalded her neck. He pierced her through, all the way to her soul.
Their minds touched, but nothing so crude as thoughts passed between them. It was all emotion.
Love.
Love swept every lesser passion before it, burned the simpleminded schemes of mere humans to cosmic ash. The yacht's frame dissolved around them. Two beings freed of mortal constraint spread wings and soared on the tides of space, gathering warmth and nourishment from a thousand suns.
They danced, as ancient legend said angels did in heaven. They passed through the artificial constructs humans and shaauri called borders and scorned the petty conflicts far below. Ronan flung himself into a star and emerged again whole, every scar erased from his body, glowing like some glorious creature constructed of light and dreams. Then, laughing, he plunged through Cynara's incorporeal body and wrapped her in the vastness of his embrace.
No one, nothing stood in their way. They were gods, complete in understanding, invulnerable to the fetters that bound ordinary creatures. They were one.
The universe exploded, casting forth its countless multitudes of stars. Cynara returned to her own body, shivering with astonishment. The transcendent emotions she had grasped so briefly had faded. She knew mortal intelligence was not meant to live that way, that the human mind could not compass such perfection and survive.
But she felt no regret, no fear. Her body was sated, and her mind was at rest. A part of her had remained separate, inviolate even during the height of passion, and that part smoothly assumed control once more. She looked on the universe with calm, dispassionate reason.
Love. Was that truly what she'd felt in Ronan, or had it been an illusion? Could she trust emotions dredged up in the midst of sublime physical union? She'd admitted her feelings, but Ronan couldn't freely return them while he harbored such conflicting loyalties.
Whatever they'd shared during their lovemaking, she was quite sure that Ronan hadn't glimpsed her immediate plans. And when he discovered them, he wouldn't be able to prevent them.
The proximity alarm sounded with sharp finality. Ronan stirred but didn't open his eyes.
Cynara rose to dress, carefully guarding her thoughts. She touched the panel on her wristcom to silence the alarm.
"You'd better dress and web in," she said.
He groaned softly but obeyed, and she stepped outside the pod to set the yacht's autopilot. When she returned to the pod, Ronan stood beside his seat, bent under the low overhead, and gazed at her solemnly as if he expected a wrenching farewell.
Don't slip now, she told herself. "Sit. We still have a little time left."
With a slight frown Ronan perched on the edge of his seat. Cynara lay back in the second seat as if to make herself comfortable and tapped her wristcom.
The hatch sealed with a click, and then the pod shuddered and broke free of its clamps.
Ronan half rose. "What have you done?"
"I instructed the yacht to eject the lifepod on my command. Too late to stop it now." The pod's engine came to life, and she pulled the webbing over her hips and chest. "One minute until we enter the wormhole. I suggest you web in."
He spat some alien curse and did so. His emotions could easily overwhelm her if she let them. But she wouldn't, because she felt strong and sure of her purpose. She concentrated on the overhead displays. 'Ten seconds," she said. "Five."
The pod shuddered and entered the wormhole. Ronan stared straight up, jaw set. In seconds they were on the othe
r side, where a shaauri reception committee was waiting.
The alien vessel was of the striker class like the one that had pursued Ronan. The pod's small screen gave very few details of design or decoration, but Ronan had already unwebbed and was studying it intently.
"Can you read the designation?" she asked.
His anger remained at low ebb, where it couldn't interfere with the far more pressing business at hand. "I am not sure," he said. "Let us hope they know of my mission."
"You seem to have expected them to be here."
"There are regular patrols at most shaauri wormholes, but junctions to Concordat territory are most closely watched. It is possible this ship is expecting my return."
"I always meant to ask if the shaauri vessel that chased you to the Pegasus was part of the plan."
"Few shaauri knew of it," he said. "Pray to your gods that these do, or that they are Kalevi allies."
"Not Kalevi themselves?"
"My Line does not have its own ships, or any interest in worlds beyond their own. But Clan Moikko, to which Line Kalevi belongs, does possess them. If this ship is Moikko, its First will not have us killed immediately."
"That's a relief. What now?"
"We wait." He moved close, his arm touching hers. "Do not speak to the shaauri. I will say what is necessary, and do whatever I must to protect you."
"I knew what I was doing when I came. I'm prepared to take the consequences."
"I am not." He almost smiled, though it was not a pretty expression. "Do not stare at any of the shaauri; keep your gaze averted. We are inferiors until our place is established. Do not show your teeth, or smile, or offer your hand. Remain quiet."
"I plan to." And I'm not prepared to have you risk everything for my sake.
That is my decision. You are in my territory now.
She heard him clearly, more than ever before. There was a new ease in such communication, one that did not require physical contact, and she found that she could keep that mental channel open without exposing all her thoughts and feelings. Even so strong an emotion as love couldn't fog her mind when survival itself depended on absolute awareness and control.
The image on the screen changed as the striker came about. Its grapples struck the pod with a muted thump, and the cable began to reel them in like a well-hooked fish.
For Ronan it must have seemed a repeat of his "rescue" by the Pegasus, but this docking might not end nearly so well. A single shaaurin might be waiting, or a thousand.
Stay close. Ronan opened the hatch and stepped out ahead of her, hands at his sides, palms out and fingers curled tightly to conceal his nails. Evidently a clenched fist was not a sign of hostility among shaauri. Cynara bit hard on her lower lip to stifle an untimely laugh.
Do not show fear. Cynara ground her teeth and nearly bumped into Ronan when he stopped. His head was slightly turned to one side, neither bowed nor lifted, as he met the armed shaauri who confronted him.
Warriors. No one could mistake the size of these shaauri, or their aggressiveness. Cynara struggled to keep her head low and still assimilate the incredible vision so few humans had ever been privileged to witness.
The warriors—ve'laik'i, Ronan called them—stood well over six feet tall, and their spare and functional clothing did nothing to conceal the muscles flexing under deep red, black-barred fur. Cynara remembered that shaauri rank was determined visually by the number of stripes on the body fur; these warriors had a large number collected on the upper torso and arms.
Ronan had always been incredibly graceful in his movements. Now she understood what he attempted to mimic, for the shaauri did not so much walkras flow over the deck. Their limbs were formed differently than humans', yet there was no hint of awkwardness in the aliens' physiques. Feet were bare, and the hands, bearing sinister weapons, were armed with curved, sharpened, and tattooed nails.
Their faces were indeed catlike, as much as an ancient Terran monkey's was like a human's; the shaauri's whiskers grew like parentheses on either side of the face and formed two bristle-like clumps on the jaw. Ears, set slightly to the side of the head, were large and pointed and extremely mobile, never quite still.
But it was the creatures' eyes that were most extraordinary, large and tilted and red-gold, with vertical oval pupils. Those eyes were staring at Ronan in open challenge, waiting for a single false move.
One of the shaauri spoke. Its voice—Cynara couldn't tell if it was male or female—was utterly unexpected. There was nothing feline about it. Recordings could never do it justice, for human hearing was not meant to absorb its incredible complexity. Cynara sensed pitches too high or low for her to detect, rumbles she felt in her chest, hissing sibilants and minuscule alterations in tone that must have held great meaning for other shaauri.
Ronan listened intently. How he understood with his human senses was beyond her, unless he—like "true" Kinsmen—relied on telepathy and had done so in the past without realizing it. After the shaaurin finished speaking, Ronan waited several minutes in silence and then began his reply.
Human voices were no more designed to make those sounds than human hearing was to perceive them, yet Ronan came so close that Cynara couldn't tell the difference. His throat and tongue and chest manipulated tones up and down the scale and well beyond it. She concentrated, seeking explanation in his mind.
The shaaurin warrior had challenged, and Ronan answered simply, with Line, House, and name. "Ronan" had never sounded so peculiar. There were honorifics, including the prefix "Ve," which Ronan had applied to Kord on the Pegasus, and much that she interpreted as additional courtesies due those who were, at least for the time being, in a position of greater rank and power.
The one thing Ronan did not do was back down. He kept his gaze averted, but never lowered; his stance was straight, unapologetic, and his body and hands moved almost imperceptibly to accent his words. Cynara guessed that his small and immobile ears were his greatest disadvantage. It must have been difficult to grow up among shaauri lacking those marvelous appendages.
It must have been difficult not to be afraid of these beings every minute of every day. But Ronan was not afraid—not for himself. His only fear was for her. Even that he did not let the warriors see.
When he had finished, there was another silence, not so long, and one of the warriors turned to the three shaauri standing behind. More whistling, growling, and hissing, and then one of the three stepped forward.
The difference in its fur was immediately apparent. Where the dark bars on the warriors' shoulders were heavy and numerous, those on this individual turned its upper body nearly black from neck to waist. It also wore minimal clothing, consisting primarily of a long robe open at the sides and lightly held in place with a sash. It, like the others, wore little personal ornamentation, as if the striking fur were enough.
Ronan stood still, if possible even more alert than he had been facing the warriors. The new shaaurin moved up between the ve'laik'i and made a gesture with one graceful, long-nailed hand. Ronan answered an unspoken question. Cynara heard some semblance of her own name, honorifics attached.
The robed shaaurin answered, Ronan responded at some length, and the shaaurin made a single perfunctory sound that could only be a command. Ronan hesitated and then slowly moved aside.
She is Third of this ship, Ronan spoke in Cynara's mind. Let her see you. Do not be afraid.
He had, she thought with some irony, decided to be funny at the worst possible moment. Cautiously she moved forward, standing shoulder to shoulder with Ronan and hoping the shaaurin would interpret her stance as one of perfect unity with him.
Silence. Cynara's own breathing seemed deafening. Ronan was with her, all around her, though he didn't so much as twitch a finger. She felt the shaaurin's stare, undeniably rude by human or shaauri standards.
Then she lost her temper, and stared back.
One of the warriors moved. The robed shaaurin barked another order, and both ve'laik'i lunged toward Ronan with th
e butts of their weapons raised to strike.
* * *
Chapter 22
« ^ »
No!
Had there been other telepaths aboard, every one of them would have heard Ronan's warning. The ve'laik'i saw it clearly enough; instinct stopped them in their attack, and Ronan seized on that hesitation.
"No," he repeated firmly, staring past the warriors into the arvi'va's eyes. "You will not take her, Tala Aarys. This female carries intelligence vital to shaauri security, and it is information only I can access. She is my hostage, and I will deliver her to my Line, alive and well."
The Aarys ship's Third was so stunned by his assumption of equality that she halted her warriors and simply stared back. Had Cynara asked him what he did, he could not have explained; so much of shaauri nature was incomprehensible to humans, especially that behavior not defined by words.
At this moment he held the advantage, and he must continue to do so. Boldness was his only hope. Tala Aarys was young, clearly inexperienced and new-come to her rank; the ; First and Second of the Aarys striker watched from behind a rank of ve'laik'i, waiting to see what she would do. It was as much her test as his.
If the young shaaurin chose to continue with her attack, her superiors might or might not stop her. He had to make sure that they did.
"I have told you my name and purpose, Va Tala," he said. "You are of Moikko. You know why I was sent into human space. If you take my hostage, you will challenge Line Kalevi, and I will fight. Is this wisdom, when all shaauri suffer by such conflict in time of war?"
Human," Tala Aarys spat, anger in the set of her ears. "You are not shaaurin."
"I am Ronan VelKalevi, sent forth by the War-Leader and the First of Ain'Kalevi."
"And by Kinsmen."
The hatred in her words was manifest. Before the Second War, Aarys had allied itself with Kinsmen rebelling against the Concordat. The human rebels had turned against their shaauri allies to save themselves. Now it was well known that Aarys, like Kalevi, hated all humans. That was another advantage Ronan must exploit.
Kinsman's Oath Page 28
