Indeed, the Harvester only stood gazing at the room, and the muscles at her mouth twitched. She drew weak, rapid breaths, and her eyes gazed around in bewilderment.
The Harvester was struggling for control, struggling against the Inhuman.
Gallen climbed to his feet, turned and looked at Ceravanne. His eyes had rolled back in his head, and slowly, as if fighting a great battle with himself, he whispered, “Leave us!”
“Gallen?” Orick said, gazing deep into his eyes. “Are you in there?”
Gallen said nothing intelligible, but his voice gurgled. And Ceravanne looked at Gallen’s mantle on the floor, realized that his mantle was still fighting, trying to block the Inhuman’s signals, just as Gallen was still struggling against it.
Ceravanne stepped forward. The Tekkar guard swung his sword menacingly, still blocking the path, and though the guard would not let Orick pass, Ceravanne suspected that she herself might have a better chance of reaching the Harvester.
Ceravanne crossed the room, pulled back her hood, and the Tekkar stood looking at her in her splendor. She hesitated for a moment, waiting for her scent to fill the air around her, so that her powerful pheromones would have time to work on the Tekkar. By nature, Ceravanne was aware of subtle forms of manipulation. Tone of voice, gestures, scent-all worked together to create a mood.
The Tekkar stopped swinging his sword, considering, and Ceravanne watched his purple eyes. There was a hint of widening, as if the Tekkar were surprised by her lack of fear, but his eyes did not stare beyond her, losing their focus, as so often happens when one is planning to kill. Ceravanne held her hands together and hunched her shoulders, making herself seem smaller. It was a pose that spoke at once of unconscious authority and vulnerability. Her beauty and scent confused the Tekkar with a sensual aura. Ceravanne had called mortal enemies together and got them forging alliances within minutes, yet even after thousands of years of experience, she could not be sure that her persuasive powers would work on the Tekkar.
“Let me pass,” Ceravanne said softly, as if reminding him that she had the perfect right to command. “I will not harm you, and I do not believe you wish to harm me. There has been too much violence already.”
The Tekkar’s lips parted and he looked back to the Harvester in confusion, and in that moment of hesitation, Ceravanne crossed the room, stood at Gallen’s side, rested her hand on his shoulder, and looked up into the face of the Harvester. There was sweat running down the woman’s forehead, and she held her jaw clenched, trembling. “Fight it,” Ceravanne whispered vehemently to both Gallen and the Harvester.
“Fight with your whole souls.” Ceravanne stepped toward her, and the Harvester reached for the knife on her hip.
“Please, not one more life!” the Bock said, holding its arms high. “I beg of the Ceravanne who once was, do not let this Inhuman force you into taking one more life!”
The Harvester stood, and beads of sweat began dotting her forehead. “I can’t … stop it. I can’t hold … it!”
Ceravanne pulled back her hood, exposing her own mantle. “Yes you can, for a moment, at great cost. And in that moment, you are free. I’ve spoken with those technicians who designed the Inhuman,” she whispered. “The memories it shows you are flawed, and all of its conclusions are lies. You are not responsible for the sum of human misery. I’ve come to bring you truth. Put on this mantle, and let it teach you peace. It will free you.”
She began walking slowly toward the Harvester, who looked toward the exits. Ceravanne feared that she would jump and flee down one of those corridors. The Tekkar guard moved uneasily, as if to intercept Ceravanne, and the Bock hurried toward the throne.
The Harvester raised her hands, as if to ward Ceravanne away. “No,” she whispered. “Leave now! I do not want to hurt you!”
“And I do not want to hurt you,” Ceravanne said softly, all feigned vocal tones aside. The Harvester would know if she lied.
The Tekkar guard moved to intercept the Bock, and the Harvester cried, “Stop him!” The Bock stopped beside Orick, unable to advance farther.
The Harvester pulled her dagger from her hip sheath, and its shining curved blade gleamed wickedly. Ceravanne recalled how deeply it had bit into her in the past, the cold poison at its tip. “I have killed myself before,” the Harvester whispered.
“Yes, to avoid being infected by the Inhuman,” Ceravanne answered sadly, realizing that her sister-self was planning suicide. “The Swallow has returned to her ancient land of Indallian. She came to bring peace and unite her people. But you’re infected by that which we both fear. If this is all you can do to save us, then do what you must. I forgive you.”
And Ceravanne saw the pain on the Harvester’s face as her muscles worked against her. She marveled at the Harvester’s struggle for control, for few could hope to fight the domination of a machine designed to manipulate the human will, and Ceravanne knew that the Harvester must have been fighting the Inhuman’s control for months.
“Forgive me and die,” the Harvester said, and she leapt at Ceravanne. In that brief instant, Ceravanne saw her mistake.
The Tharrin compunction against taking a human life was nearly unbreakable, but it did not extend to self, and the Harvester viewed Ceravanne as self. And in that instant, Ceravanne saw that the Harvester was relinquishing control. She could not have moved so swiftly otherwise. Indeed, for that brief moment, she was the Inhuman.
And a sudden shocking urge welled up inside Ceravanne. For one moment, she wished the Harvester dead. She wanted to hide the ugliness of what she had become from the world. Expunge it. Make it as if it had never been. While humans feared most the death of the body, Ceravanne feared more for the death of her soul, and she wanted now to unmake the thing she had become.
“No!” the Bock shouted, rushing toward them.
Ceravanne grasped the Harvester’s hand as her knife plunged downward. And for a moment they struggled, fighting for control of the knife. The Harvester’s face was a mask of determination and rage, the face of a stranger. Ceravanne turned and kicked at the older woman’s legs, trying to unbalance her, and very nearly succeeded in driving the knife into the Harvester’s neck.
The Harvester cried out for aid, and her guard spun and rushed toward her. Ceravanne saw Orick leap in behind the guard, catch the Tekkar’s rear leg in his teeth, and shake the man vigorously. With a mighty heave of his neck, Orick threw the Tekkar against the near wall, and bones snapped.
The Bock lunged forward past Orick, trying to throw himself between the women. With his long fingers, he grabbed for the knife as it arced toward Ceravanne a second time, reaching up. The knife pierced his hand, driving deeply along the outside of his palm. Bright blood spattered over his arm, and he backed away from the Harvester.
“She’s … innocent! You’re both innocent!” the Bock cried. The Harvester stared at the Bock, eyes wide, and staggered backward, running from her deed.
Ceravanne stood, watching the doomed Bock collapse at her feet. “Ah,” he muttered courageously, making a show as if the wound were a scratch, backing away. “I …” Confusion crossed his face, and he sat down heavily, his many knees buckling. “What?”
“I’ve killed you,” the Harvester cried, as if the words were torn from her throat.
Ceravanne felt her heart pounding fiercely in her chest, but she couldn’t breathe. She fell to her knees beside the Bock, hoping to comfort him.
Her eyes filled with tears, and the Bock looked up at her incredulous. “How? No, it’s a small wound!”
“With the juice of deathfruit in it,” the Harvester whispered.