“(Agreement). Let it be Named before we go.”
The thunder voice seemed to compromise to the hard golden red voice. “(Eastwind-rider-across-the-rocks) carried it here. He can Name it.”
“His coloring is too (sharp/hard) for it,” the yellow voice interjected. “(Sweeper-of-ice-ridges-shaip-on-the-horizon) is closer, but still too acute. Listen to how soft it is. We should know its youth Name first, before offering (Name/future/flight).”
The blue-gray voice agreed. “Ask it for its youth Name.”
Instinctively, Dion braced herself, but there was a pause. Then there was a merging of colors and sounds that became dark—almost completely black with the solid blend of voices. There was the angry-thunder voice. There was the grayish blue voice that was softer and protesting—like a wolf pack swirling in her head. The sharp but clear gray voice—like water too cold for ice. The yellow-bright voice, cutting but not unkind. Impatient? She couldn’t tell. And the golden red voice, like heat in her mind. Finally, a silver-white voice swirled to the front. “What Name your (ground/unwinged)?”
Dion hesitated. The question had not been simple, as she had expected, but layered, as though there were meanings upon meanings—like the memories of the wolves. Gray layers, gray fog—a thousand answers that made a single response … Instinctively, she knew what it required: a definition of self.
She shrank from that.
They stared at her. She didn’t move. But the question stuck in her mind, hanging like a sword: What was her name—her definition? Was she her past? Or Aranur’s future? Was there nothing more than duty in her, that she had come here at all? Or was she grief—and through that a drive to connect to her mate through her demand on the aliens, and to connect to her sons through her death?
She felt her hands clench, and she couldn’t help the anger that built within her. She was a tool, she thought. A blade of gray. A salve to the wounds of her county. She was the feelings she rejected, and the rage she contained. She was light and dark, life and death. She was a wolfsong without voice. And in the end, she realized, she was nothing more than a driving desire to end death with life—to resolve the Ancient’s debt of plague with payments on the debts she created: Danton’s debt—of death and loss, Aranur’s debt of duty … The debt to her mother who died at her birth. The debt of love her mate had stolen when he took his path to the moons … And the life-debt from the wolves—that promise, which demanded life in return—the demand that an old death be settled.
Something stirred in her heart. She still lived, she knew, deep inside herself, behind the walls of emptiness and the void that death had brought. She just didn’t want to face herself for fear she could not live with her own truths. But the aliens waited, and the wolves died outside. Abruptly, rage tightened her throat. Grief, fury, longing, loss; love and joy and dreaming … They whirled together in a maelstrom, slamming about until they wove their patterns into the sound she projected at the waiting Aiueven.
I am Ember Dione maMarin.
A burst of energy flashed back like a splash of water. She flinched. But it had not been painful. It had been dizzying—as if she had somehow begun Ovousibas and had jerked back out as soon as the thought was formed.
“There are no (teeth) in its name,” the soft one protested. “Is it Named correctly?”
“(Affirmation). It is a baby, not a yearling. It has a baby Name. But it (hears/understands) us. It speaks (clearly/maturely) with depth to its tone. It has lived. We can hear the (future-debt) of a binding in its Name. It has taken life-debt from one of us.”
The golden red voice agreed. “You saw (true/future). It Knows.”
“It learns quickly,” the sharp-gray voice put in. “I have heard its voice before, as it learned to (move/change) its own energy. It was alone, I think, even then.”
“But if it does not learn enough to Fly before the Last Storm, it must be left behind.”
“It is confused from the (wolves),” the gray voice returned. “I heard (wolves/gray/aliens) in its recognition of the (patterns/layers) of the question. It could have been damaged from that contact.”
“(Affirmation). Did Eastwind-rider-across-the-rocks chase off the (wolves/gray) when he took the (baby/youngling) back?”
“He is in (Ves) phase, and the storms are already rising,” returned another voice. “Bringing the baby here was hard on him. He had nothing left with which to chase off the (wolves/aliens).” The golden red voice paused and regarded Dion’s voice. “He could not Name it anyway; its coloring is too different than his. Its coloring is much like yours, however,” it said to the gray-blue alien.
The alien seemed to turn to Dion. Yellow, slitted eyes blinked, and in that instant a wash of despair flooded her mind. She gasped. It was as though every instant of grief she had ever felt was concentrated into a single thrust of mental energy.
It was gone as suddenly as it came, but Dion was frozen on the rock.
The blue-gray voice seemed to consider the others’ images. “Has it shown any other (eagerness/desire/dreams) to Fly?”
“(Denial). The single dream, (unfocused/fear), that you heard when you arrived, and that single desire for the (home/stars/freedom). But it has seen (time/ancestors). Throwbacks can reach (time/back) like that.”
“If it is a throwback, it will learn differently than we (expect),” the other one agreed. “Throwbacks are more (unstructured/creative) than we (structured) when young.”
“Throwback or structured—it doesn’t matter. It must Fly or die.”
“But it must be Named to Fly,” the yellow-bright voice retorted.
The purple-dark voice rounded on the last voice. “Then find it a (mother-debt/guardian/teacher). I will not do for it. It doesn’t feel (right/smooth/timed) to me. Its (thoughts/self) feels awkward and (wrong/rebellious/accusing).”
“Perhaps it is (linked/debted) to your (ancestor/stigma).”
There was a general agreement. Finally, the blue-gray one spoke again, slowly, as if to convince itself of what it said. “It feels (strange/clumsy/confused) to me,” the alien projected, “but its (gracelessness) will disappear with (cold/growth/familiaiity).”
“Do you claim it to Name it, then?” the sharp-blue one demanded. “You accept its (mother-debt)?”
“Your (child-debt/grief/loss) is still strong,” another said. “Its (mother-loss/grief) is as harsh. It will compound your (cessation/no-future/grief) and color all our voices.”
“It has already touched us with its (grief/loss). You heard it call for (life-debt/payment/resolve). If it is to learn to (power/focus) any other (emotion/vision), one of us must (mother-debt/guide) it soon.”
Their voices linked and blended, and Dion realized that the sense of debt that pervaded their words was a symbiotic sense. Each one was tied to the next one through its actions and words. She felt the power they focused between each other and studied those links. It was Ovousibas they used—the sense of it was the same as the power she had learned from the wolves. But linking and communicating like this—it was something she had not considered, that energy could be used in ways other than healing. She followed their links, watched the mesh of their voices and the way each one projected to and fed off the pattern. Like the designs in the cave walls, the words between them were a weave of intent and emotion, history and future, guide and focus. And in the tapestry they wove together, each one’s voice blended perfectly, yet was distinct and minutely detailed. Like a packsong, she thought, only where the wolves howled together to blend into a single group—like long grass twisted into a single rope—the aliens sang together yet remained separate— like the grass in a meadow when the wind blows through. And as she studied their images, a single question rose in her mind: If they could aim a voice at another, why couldn’t she do the same?
Quiedy, she let her mind shift to the left and down. But instead of slipping into her own body, she let the focus of her mind hang for a moment in thought. Then, gathering herself into a sense of direction, she pr
ojected it out beyond the caves and south toward the lower snowpacks. KiyunTehenaKiyunTehenaKiyun …
The aliens’ voices silenced. Abruptly, Dion stopped.
“Listen,” the bright yellow voice broke in. “Did it Name itself?”
“(Denial),” the sharp, ice-blue voice said. “It was calling. Did you (see) the narrowness of its voice? There was direction to its call.”
“(Uncertainty/possibility),” the yellow voice protested. “Hear the rhythm—it is almost a flight pattern,” she said. “Kiuntihin’ kiuntihin’kiun.”
“It is still too (soft/babyish),” the other one scoffed. “Even my first pattern had twice as many (teeth) as that: Kikliti’clintikin.”
“It is much (younger) than you when you learned to Fly,” the gray-blue voice admonished. “Its Name, like yours, will harden with (age). As a (throwback/ancestor), it will need more (time/mother-debt) to harden its (teeth).”
“Do you Name it then? Do you give (mother-debt)?”
Whose-wings-make-the-grass-flow hesitated. Then the alien seemed to solidify its thoughts. “(Agreement),” it said quietly. “I will Name it. It will be my (child-debt/child).”
Dion eyed them warily. Unconsciously, she edged back on the ice, but her back was already against the wall. A drip from the roof of the cave hit the back of her neck, but the chill was nothing compared to the sense that hit her stomach. There were no Ancient legends about naming each other—only of trading science for the right to stay on this world. Or of being killed. And there were no stories of humans being linked to Aiueven …
The hum was subsonic at first, but it grew into her sternum within seconds. The humming rose, and the bones in her chest and thighs began to vibrate. The noise became a sound that demanded her attention like a pounding that breaks down doors. She opened her mouth, but her voice involuntarily added to the song of tension. Her vocal cords shivered together. The Aiueven riveted on her, and under the impact, her mind fractured like an egg.
Their thoughts spun together and dropped to the left. Dion was dragged along. Need blended with need; grief understood grief; their losses bound them like steel. Dion gasped with the sudden flush of strength that came with that into her mind. Then their mental voices caught at each other and formed a resonance.
Kiuntihin ’kiuntihin ’kiun. Soft, for it lacks teeth.
Kiuntihin ’kiuntihin ’kiun. Young, since it lacks age.
Kiuntihin kiuntihin’kiun. Wise, though it lacks
wings.
Kiuntihin ’kiuntihin ’kiun.
It was a river of sound that, once unleashed, could not be stopped from its pattern. It spilled over Dion’s mind, locking her thoughts into that of the alien, and binding the alien back. The blue-gray touch dipped into her body and bones, and wondered at the solidity of them before it found her unborn child. Grief and need became a set of teeth that tore into Dion’s mind, even as the alien (greedily/urgently) bound itself to her unborn daughter. Purple light flashed without being seen. Sound without sound slammed between them. Child-debt, mother-debt became the same. The alien cried out, and it was Dion who instinctively soothed her.
Kiuntihin ’kiuntihin ’kiun. Fast, for its dreams soar.
Kiuntihin ’kiuntihin ’kiun. Heavy, since it makes a
(child).
Kiuntihin ’kiuntihin ’kiun. Strong, not one, but
two.
Kiuntihin ’kiuntihin ’kiun.
The alien swept deeper into Dion’s mind, finding the core of her thoughts. Like a thousand links to a thousand wolves, their voices meshed together. The past became the possibility of a future, the link between them a line of continuity that ran in both directions. Human, alien touched. Dion screamed. The alien froze, but it was too late to go back. The sense of Dion’s humanness flashed along her Name.
Kiuntihin ’kiuntihin ’kiun. Earthbound.
Kiuntihin ’kiuntihin ’kiun. Skybound.
Kiuntihin ’kiuntihin ’kiun. Named.
Abruptly the air filled with rage. Purple shouted with blue and gray, tinging into black. Red-orange burned like a piece of the sun falling through the sky. The noise was real, and Dion fell to her knees while talons chipped the air above her. Mouths gnashed. And all the while, there was one image clear above the rest: Human.
XXII
Kek’kallic krast
The plague of the past
Te ’etrellic ek ’kit
The death-debt
There were suddenly more Aiueven there. Ten, twelve, two dozen … She couldn’t tell. The din in her head was vicious, slamming back and forth. The alien who had Named her was close, almost touching, yet its mind recoiled in a flash.
“Not (Aiueven/us/pure). (Loathing/horror) Human!”
“(Distress). I did not know—”
“Human!”
“What (abomination) have we done? To spit out the (Song/future) for wings—how could it Know?”
“(Kill/destroy) it.”
“Kill it (now).”
“Stop!” Dion screamed, cowering. She did not realize that none of them had moved.
The din ceased instantly.
Dion’s fists clenched. “I am Named. I can speak for myself.”
“Human,” hissed the cold, ice-blue voice. “You cannot speak.”
“I have a Name.”
“It is Named,” the birdwoman said sharply, the horror in her voice clanging like an off-key metal bar on stone. “(It/my-youth/child-debt) can speak.”
Two of them looked at Dion’s (mother-debt/bond). “Is it bonded?”
As though her head bowed and her wings melted before them, Whose-wings-make-the-grass-flow agreed. “It is my (youth/child-debt) now.”
“Human (youth)?” The sharp-blue voice seemed to coil in on itself in a vile sense. “(Pity). (Horror).”
“Take back its Name,” another one said hotly, fired with its own fervor. Dion could almost feel its claws reach for her throat.
“My Name is myself,” Dion snarled back. “You can kill me, but you cannot destroy that. And I understand enough to know that I am in your history now, no matter what you do.”
“A Human cannot be Named,” the young one spat. “A Human cannot have wings.”
“No? We soared the skies and stars like you—”
“You (crawl/ground-dwell) now.”
“You made us this way.”
“You cannot even (dream/know) flight.”
Abruptly, Dion stood. She faced them, and their slitted eyes stared back at her. Their minds were like badgerbears, poised to strike. “My wings are here,” she said vehemendy, and in her mind, behind her, curling out of her shoulders like moths hatching from their cocoons, she imagined a set of wings.
“Human,” gnashed Sweeper-of-ice-ridges-sharp-on-the-horizon. “You mock us. Your wings are not (power/truth).”
“Are these better?” she snarled. Her image changed, and she projected the skycars as she had seen them in Ancient places. She took the image and let the skycar soar into the sky, floating down on its extended wings. “Or this?” She projected the picture of spacecraft she had seen in the Ancient texts in Ariye. “We had flight. We owned the stars like you.”
“They are not (real/power). They are no longer (truth). It mocks us with these (images).”
“Can any Human make light of us?” Dion’s (mother) dismissed the other’s claim. But the birdcreature’s voice was filled with a loathing that was directed half at herself. “They are wings, even if they are not (truth).”
“(Denial).” The answer was a sharp, slashing note. “There is a debt building here. (Intrusion-debt), (Naming-debt)—”
Dion cut them off. Her voice, thin compared to theirs, was sharp as a knife. “You want to talk about debt?” she snapped. “Who owes what to whom? We bore thousands of deaths from the plague you sent when you broke your bargain with us. We built your barriers, kept the worlags from your dens, but you killed us anyway—” Her voice broke off.
Suddenly, she knew what she had seen,
so long ago in the wolves. The voices, the colors, the shifts of alien thoughts … Something turned over in her gut. “It was you,” she breathed, turning to the purple-dark voice. “It was you who sent the plague.” Stunned, she stared through her eyes as well as her mind. “It wasn’t all of you together,” she whispered. “It was you alone who did it—the ones that were colored like you. I saw your eyes—I saw them through the wolves. And I heard your voices in the packsong. Their memories were clear. Eight hundred years, and you haven’t changed. Your colors are the same.”
The purple-dark voice went still.
“It has (called/recognized) you,” the golden red voice said harshly to the other.
“It is your (stigma/ancestry),” said another to the purple-dark voice. “As with us, (it/human) (thought/memory/debt) does not (fade/forgive) from their minds.”
“(Denial). It is (insight/more) than that,” countered the cold, blue voice.
The sharp-gray voice seemed to whisper agreement. “It claims (life-debt/death-debt) from us.”
The purple-dark voice shivered. “(Denial/impossible).”
“I saw you,” Dion repeated. “I saw your voice. The shades— they were the same. Even now the wolves carry your plague, dormant in their bodies. A single trigger, and they die like the Ancients. Like the wolves you first killed yourself.”
“It (sees/perceives) the (stigma/history),” said the cold, blue voice. “It brings it back—enters it into the (hne/matrix/all-of-us).”
“Then I must (kill/cessation) it,” the other returned. “Or it will contaminate us all.”
The others agreed. “The Naming pact is broken. Kill it.”
“Kill it,” the hard voice agreed.
Dion stood her ground. “You can’t kill me,” she said harshly. “You owe me my life and the lives of the thousands you killed. You owe my people the future you stripped away from us.”
“(Denial)!”
“You owe me (blood-debt/life-debt),” she repeated, using their own images back at them.
Wolf's Bane Page 36
