Liaden Universe 18: Dragon in Exile

by Sharon Lee

  “She will take your life?” she asked Rys.

  “Grandmother, so she said.”

  “And you agreed to this?”

  “Yes.” The face he showed her was unafraid, yet Silain felt a shiver, as if the breeze from tomorrow had stroked her cheek.

  “Unless he is inexcusably clumsy,” Val Con murmured, “it is doubtful that she will murder him. My lady has a gift for making use of people, waking talents they barely knew they encompassed, and pushing them into extraordinary action. Very likely, she will only make him into what was lost.”

  Now was Rys alarmed, too long after agreeing to the headwoman’s bargain. His hand gleamed when he moved it, as if pushing the words away.

  “I am not fit to be Korval!” he protested.

  His brother caught the gleaming hand and held it gently, one dark brow out of line with the other, and a half-smile on his generous mouth.

  “If it comes to that, neither am I, fit to be Korval,” he murmured.

  Silain shook her head.

  “If you have agreed to this, Grandson, then it will be done, and the Lady of the Tree will make of you what she will.”

  “Yes,” Rys said again. “But Val Con will return to his lady.”

  Despite what she had said, in order to ease his natural qualms, dreams did sometimes kill. Especially such dreams as this one. And it was true that dreams would sometimes open old, or mis-healed wounds.

  Silain extended her hand then, imperious. He who would dream released Rys and turned to meet her eyes.

  “Grandmother?”

  “Your hand,” she said.

  Cool fingers met hers and she saw it, clearly, the damage that had been done. It was a pattern well known to her; she need only extend her other hand to Rys to see its twin. Someone skilled had taken up the healing of him, and done their work well; he was strong and whole, and if there remained a flaw, it was too small for her old eyes to detect. She was about to release him, when she caught a glimmer of living color, on the very edge of her Sight.

  Color? Or flame? She averted her Sight, much as one might avert the outward eyes, in order to see some ghostly thing more clearly. The colors intensified, flowing into an arc. A whisper of melody tickled her Inner Ear.

  “A bridge of flame and music springs from inside your soul,” she murmured, barely hearing her own voice. “What is the name of the one you are linked to?”

  There was a hesitation; she felt him weigh the need to disclose his secrets—and felt him understand that this secret had already been breached.

  “Miri. My lifemate. But,” he said, his voice taking on an edge of worry, “she agreed to shield herself from this.”

  “The base of the bridge where it springs from your soul is at the far limit of my Sight. I think I am only able to see it because I hold your hand. Your lifemate may have kept her word, young dreamer, but shielding against such passion as I am able to see would be like drawing a cobweb over a bonfire.”

  “She has assistance,” he said, and she felt that he attempted not only to answer her, but to soothe himself. “My sister and her lifemate are skilled in these matters.”

  “Well, then,” she said softly, “it will fall out as it does.”

  She released him, patting his cheek as if she comforted a child, before turning to Rys.

  “You will do well,” she told him, feeling the weight of her words. And truly, it was unlikely that the man who had survived even the healing of such wounds would die of Rys’s dream.

  “I believe that I understand the risk,” Rys’s brother said quietly. “I do not come to this unarmed, or naïve. I have, indeed, some knowledge of horror.”

  “So I have seen. It will be as it will be, my children. Are you ready to dream?”

  “As much as I may be. I would have it done quickly.”

  She nodded. Rys offered his natural hand, and she accepted his help, rising a little stiffly, and beckoned them toward her tent.

  Val Con tucked himself, birdlike, into a nest of blankets smelling not of smoke, as he had expected, but of flowers. When he pronounced himself comfortable, the grandmother bent over him, a crown of flexible golden mesh held between her hands, and settled it upon his head.

  He closed his eyes, and extended himself in that way which was perfectly natural, and utterly indescribable, questing after the lifemate link, the complex music of Miri’s soul.

  His questing met only a damp coolness, like fog.

  Excellent, he told himself. She is shielded.

  In the normal way of things, they did not hide themselves from each other. But this—there was real danger here; he knew it, and he had pressed her hard, until she had agreed to accept assistance, and remain shielded until he returned to her. That . . . was not to his credit, but he would not, for his life, expose her to any portion of a sim reflecting what it was, to be one of the agents of the Department of the Interior.

  “Attend me,” Silain said, and he opened his eyes to look up into her face.

  “First,” she said, “there will be a tone. This tone will put you into a deep sleep. Once asleep, you will dream. You may wake from the dream at any time, or I will wake you, if you seem to me to have become dangerously distressed. Do you understand these things, Val Con, brother of Rys?”

  “Grandmother, I do.”

  He breathed in, breathed out, and brought to mind the Rainbow, the calming and centering exercise that is the very first thing taught to novice Scouts.

  “Yes,” he heard Silain murmur, as if she had seen the colors whirl and lock. “Excellent. Use what tools you have.”

  He felt her touch on his hair, lightly, perhaps being certain of the connections; heard the rustle of cloth as she reached to the device—and abruptly felt himself short of breath.

  “Brother,” he said suddenly. He freed his arm from the blankets. “Your hand, if you will honor me.”

  “Of course, Brother.” Rys dropped to his knees by the cot, and clasped him firmly with his own, natural, hand. “You are safe with me.”

  Bold words. Would that he felt so bold, of a sudden.

  “Are you ready, Val Con?” asked the luthia.

  “Grandmother, I am as ready as ever I will be.”

  He took a deep, deliberate breath.

  Somewhere, a chime sounded, bright and hard.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Jelaza Kazone

  Surebleak

  “You agreed to stay shielded!”

  Anthora came to Miri’s side, and placed a hand on her shoulder.

  “I am shielded,” Miri snapped. “Though why I let myself be talked into any part of this—”

  “No, I see; it is an action of the bond; it seeks to reestablish itself,” Anthora murmured, probably to herself. She was looking somewhat over Miri’s head, her eyes unfocused—or, say, focused on something she could see and Miri couldn’t. Though she could feel it, assuming “it” was the lifemate link she shared with Val Con. In fact, she could even sort of see it, through the fog of the shield—an interlocking pattern of color and shape, fluid and persistently fascinating.

  “Miri, do you require assistance?” That was Ren Zel, soft-spoken and gentle. She grit her teeth and pulled the shield back together the way they’d taught her.

  “Nah,” she said, feeling a pang as the pattern was lost once again in the fog, “I’m good.”

  She had agreed to stay shielded, yes, she had.

  If she’d been only half as smart as she’d needed to be, she would’nt’ve agreed to any bit of shielding; nor agreed to let him trust his brain and his life to Old Tech.

  She’d agreed because he’d been so damn afraid when he thought of what it might do to her, who had never been an Agent of Change, nor much of anything, except a street rat and a soldier. Afraid it might break her, that’d come through; afraid it might taint her, which she might’ve laughed about, if she hadn’t been half-sick with his fear.

  So, in the end, she’d agreed, though she’d made him work for it, and given him tim
e to think of another way, if there was any other way at all . . .

  ’S’what you get, she told herself wearily, for coming to a skirmish unarmed. She closed her eyes and reached for an exercise to calm her jangling nerves. She’d lost last night’s second round of . . . negotiation when they were still in the ruckus room.

  Because she’d felt, right then, just how much this chance to maybe redeem the remaining agents of the Department of the Interior they’d captured meant to him. It was like each one of them, strangers all, held a piece of his soul, and if he didn’t release them from their training—the training he’d had and that Rys had—if he didn’t at least buy them a chance to get back what they’d lost, he’d never fully heal.

  She’d never had the training, but she’d seen what the training did; she’d felt the shadowy echoes of what the training did, and it filled her with a sort of cold and helpless fury, that it had been done to Val Con.

  And all that was why she’d agreed to remain muffled, cut off from the one sense she’d never thought to have, or want, that had become the center of her own life. To stay here, calmly at home, playing cards with Anthora and Ren Zel while Val Con . . .

  . . . risked his life.

  You knew he had this hobby before you took him on, Robertson.

  So she had.

  “Miri? Will you play another round?” That was Anthora, sounding not quite as flutter-headed as usual. In fact, she sounded a little strained.

  Right, then. She wasn’t the only one in the room who was worried.

  “Sure,” she said, walking over to the table. “Another round it is.”

  Ren Zel dealt. She took up and considered her cards. They were using a Liaden deck, which almost didn’t throw her anymore, playing pikit, which required a fair amount of attention on the cards, especially three-handed. She could have wished for something even more demanding of her brain power, and space knew there was work to do, but both Ren Zel and Anthora had advised against making any difficult decisions until the link was reestablished.

  Miri sighed, and made her discard.

  Fine, then. She’d stay shielded and busy while Val Con got on with risking his brain and his life.

  She just wished he would hurry up and get it over with.

  He strode down a dark, odorous hallway, floorboards uneven beneath his determined feet—twelve steps, a brisk turn, a sharp halt before a peeling door.

  His off hand came out of his coat pocket guided by neither his thought nor his will, and knocked, three sharp raps, before falling lifeless to his side.

  It came to him that he was shivering far more than the frigid hallway demanded. It came to him that he did not want to be here; and that he certainly did not want to meet whoever was about to open the door.

  He turned—he tried to turn, but his feet were rooted to the uneven floor; nor could he move his gaze from the warped portal before him.

  Home. He thought it; his thoughts, at least, were his own. In his mind’s eye, he saw their apartment, Miri kneeling before the fire, heavy copper hair falling in waves around her, pale skin glowing between the strands.

  He threw every ounce of his will, and every erg of the terror that filled him into a simple command: Go!

  . . . and yet he remained there, shivering and stupid, yearning to be gone, until . . .

  . . . the door opened.

  A stranger came forth, regarding him with a polite absence of expression, while he stood there, heart pounding, and afraid.

  She smiled, then, and spoke his name. Neither her face nor her voice were familiar. He wished to tell her that he was come to her door in error, but his voice was dust in his throat.

  The woman stepped forward, and cupped his face in her hands, as if they were kin, or lovers, or—no. As if she were delm and he the least of the clan. As if she owned him. Her smile widened, and she spoke again; his ear didn’t quite process the sounds.

  But it was no matter; terror slipped away from him, all desire to be elsewhere with it. He was abruptly and completely content. This was where he was wanted; where he was needed; he had duty, and one to direct him.

  And, indeed, she directed him, and he willingly obeyed her; pleased to be of use once more.

  His brother cried out, but he did not choose to wake. Rys, on his knees at cotside, felt his hand gripped so violently that he feared for the bones.

  Silain glanced at the face of the device, and the meter that measured how long the dream had run.

  “He has been reacquired,” she said, from her seat on the blanket at the cot’s further side, one hand resting lightly on the dreamer’s shoulder, the other atop the dream-reader, ready to cut the feed off, if it seemed necessary.

  Rys marked how pale Val Con had become, his dark brows pulled tight, sweat—or tears—gleaming on his cheeks.

  He teased a kerchief from his pocket, raised it in shining metal fingers, and gently wiped his brother’s face. Caught in the dream, the other did not notice, and neither smiled nor recoiled.

  It is too much, Rys thought, watching his brother’s chest heave as if he were sobbing. No one can bear this—not twice. His heart will break.

  “Grandmother, the switch!” he said hoarsely, but Silain shook her head.

  “A moment, and the choice will arise. Courage, Grandson. Trust your brother’s strength.”

  Miri was cold. Well, of course she was cold, she was on Surebleak. Speaking of idiotic moves. She’d get up after her turn and get another sweater from—

  The fog between her and Val Con burned away in a blare of agony so encompassing that she didn’t hear her own scream. It was like—it was like hot lead being poured directly into her heart; it was like a million knives slicing into her brain, excising memories, stitching in patches with burning needles . . .

  “Miri!” Something cool wrapped her, only to evaporate inside the boiling pain, and she was disappearing; she was being remade, by blade and fire, and everything she’d ever known was twisted; she was twisted, and there was a stretched, agonized time that might have been measured in centuries, when she thought—when she knew—she would shatter like a sheet of ice . . .

  A bucket of cold water crashed over her head, she was wrapped in fog a mile deep and more, so thick that she barely felt Anthora’s arms around her, holding her steady; or Ren Zel, when he picked her up, carried her to the sofa, and laid her down, while a blanket shook itself out, and drifted down to cover her, where she cowered and cried.

  Orders came; he bent his whole self to obedience; he accepted directives with neither qualm or question. There was work, a great work, to be accomplished. He was important; he was vital to the success of the plan; no one but he could do what was required. Pride in his abilities joined his complacency, his contentment in orders. He took the rifle that was given to him, and went to the place she had designated. There were deaths required, but that did not concern him. He had dealt death before, many times. It had been necessary.

  It was a wonderfully clear and freeing thing, duty. His was simply to obey; to do all and everything that was required of him. He was therefore content, as he knelt at the window, and made sure of the rifle, one more time.

  He checked the sights, and smiled, satisfied. All was well; his weapon would not fail him.

  Soon, the targets would appear. Soon, he would do what duty required: two deaths. He was skilled at dealing death; he felt satisfaction, recalling this.

  There! The targets were approaching. As had been foretold, a man, and a woman with long red hair—

  No! he heard his own voice inside his head, even as he brought the gun to position.

  No! his voice screamed again, destroying his contentment, his satisfaction.

  His hands shook; he thrust the voice away, found his focus, and sighted.

  “NO! That’s Miri!”

  He brought the rifle down; he lifted it—and hurled it away, sobbing . . .

  There was silence in the tent, save for his brother’s ragged breathing. Rys used the kerchief again, g
ently, pity warring with guilt.

  “Now,” Silain whispered.

  Val Con screamed, every muscle rigid—and collapsed, boneless as a cat. The anguished grip of his fingers relaxed, though he did not entirely relinquish Rys’s hand.

  He drew a breath, deep and unsteady. Another. And another.

  His form blurred, and Rys raised the cloth to wipe his own eyes.

  “He has chosen,” Silain said, and touched the switch at last.

  Duty was gone; purpose deserted him.

  He was alone in a darkness so complete he could not see his own soul.

  Gasping, he thrashed, a drowning man flailing after the lifesaving rope. He threw himself—forward, backward—knowing that it must be near; knowing that she would not leave him alone. Her strength would rescue him; he needed only to find the link . . .

  But it remained outside of his grasp.

  Silain leaned forward, carefully removed the mesh crown from his head, and draped it over the box.

  “Wake,” she said, the full power of the luthia’s will resonating in her voice. “Wake, Val Con yos’Phelium, and greet your brother!”

  There came another breath; a twitch of dark brows; the gleam of green eyes behind thick, sheltering lashes.

  “Gone.” His voice was a ragged whisper. “Gone.”

  He flung himself into Rys’s arms, weeping.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Blair Road

  Surebleak

  “Can’t say he sounds like the sharpest knife in the kit,” Cheever McFarland commented, after Liz’s tape had run out.

  “’Course, you’d want that, with this kind o’job.”

  Natesa laughed, and shook her head.

  “But, why?” Pat Rin asked. “Where is the gain?”

  “To disrupt the port, and throw those who maintain order into disarray? If it had been well planned, there would have been much for . . . someone to gain. Including the overthrow of the Council, eventually.”

  “Clearly, however, it was not well planned.”