He got up quietly so as not to rouse Maggie, and he put some twigs on the fire.
“How many lives you recall?” Tallea whispered, letting the sound of her voice fill the night.
“Just the seven,” Gallen answered. Then to fill up the silence that followed, he said, “I wonder how many more the Inhuman has in store for me.”
“A hundred lives to be remembered,” Tallea said. “You fortunate, remember them slowly, over days. Should be easy.”
“Yes.” Gallen smiled wanly. “I’m fortunate.” A cold shiver of fright wriggled down his backbone. He went to his pack, dug around for a moment, then pulled out a thin film of translucent material and applied it to his face.
His face suddenly shone like blue starlight as he put on the mask of Fale, and he stood for a moment, his black robes draped over him, weapons bristling on his back and thighs. He recalled how the witnesses at his trial back home had imagined he was a sidhe when thus garbed, a magical being with malevolent intent, and now Gallen could indeed feel it. With his face gleaming in the dark like a ghost, there was little human left in him. He looked like a thing.
Gallen stood at the door, as if he would walk out into the night rain, and for a moment he wanted to do that, just walk away into the dark and the cleansing rain that was sweeping down in misty sheets.
Instead he went to a back corridor of the great hall. The floors were thick with dust and moss, old leaves, and the husks of pine nuts carried in by squirrels.
He stood for a moment, testing the air to see whether the Inhuman would try to send him more memories. But there was nothing. It seemed that for the time being, he was free.
Using his mantle’s night, vision, Gallen negotiated the passageways until he found some stairs curving up the wall of a tower. Muddy footprints showed that Ceravanne had been here recently, and though Gallen mistrusted her, he felt drawn to her.
He climbed the winding stairs for twenty meters, till he found a room that opened at the top. There, several arching windows were still intact; weathered stones surrounded casements that had long ago rotted into dust. Ceravanne stood beside one such window. Ivy grew in dust on the floor, so that she stood as if in a meadow, surrounded by foliage, staring out into the rain. Her back was to him, and she shivered.
Gallen went to her, stood for a moment. He could feel the heat of her body near his, and he inhaled her clean scent. He knew that it was only pheromones that drew him so vigorously, yet he found himself wishing to hold her, to comfort her.
“I hoped you would come,” she said, and she turned. With the light amplification provided by his mantle, he could see that she’d been crying, and she stared into his face, at the mask, and he wondered what she saw. A blue glowing phantom, with dark holes for eyes.
She took his hands, held them lightly, and studied his face. She was breathing heavily, and she said, “That song-I have to ask-from whom did you learn it?”
“From a minstrel named Tam, who lived here ages ago,” Gallen answered.
“But this man, did he remember me? He didn’t know the Swallow in person?”
“You were but newly gone when he composed the song,” Gallen said.
“And Belorian? Did he know Belorian?” Her voice was nearly hysterical, as if she hoped for some word of her long-dead lover.
“No,” Gallen whispered. “He never knew Belorian.”
Ceravanne gasped and began weeping, fell against Gallen’s chest. “Ah, I thought he had. I thought you remembered his face.” Then she sobbed from the core of her soul, and Gallen clumsily put his arms around her, tried to ease her pain.
“So many tears, for one long dead,” Gallen whispered.
Ceravanne looked up, stroked his chin. “You look much like him,” she said. “When we first met, I kissed you inappropriately. I guess I wanted you to love me. Being near you has been hard. Forgive me if I’ve offended you with my affection.”
Gallen licked his lips, stepped back. He’d been aware of Ceravanne, of her graceful movements, of the longing glances she sometimes gave him. He’d imagined that it was all a ploy, a sly attempt to manipulate him. And the Inhuman, with its clever tongue, whispered that this was true-another cruel attempt by the Tharrin to ensnare him. Gallen had never dreamed that Ceravanne could really have felt anything for him, and now he saw that he was but a shadow to her.
“I’m sorry.” He found himself unaccountably apologizing. “I didn’t know.”
She looked at him oddly, as if wondering if he told the truth. “Of course you couldn’t have known.” She turned away. “What of Maggie? Have your feelings for her changed?”
“Today, I learned of the most marvelous people, far to the south. The Yakrists, they are called, and they care for others more than they care for themselves. They love one another perfectly, and as I lived the life of a Yakrist, I came to understand how weak and imperfect my love for Maggie has been.”
“So your feelings for her are changed?”
“I will try to be more … understanding of her needs,” Gallen said. “Perhaps if I were Inhuman, I would love her more perfectly.”
Ceravanne nodded, obviously distraught, and Gallen realized that she had hoped he would answer differently, that he would say he was abandoning Maggie.
“And you believe that by enslaving others, the Inhuman is showing that kind of great love?”
“Ceravanne,” Gallen whispered. “I think there is something you should know. The Inhuman is not completely wrong, here. It only wants us to understand one another, to help one another.”
There was a cruel laughing, something that Gallen could almost not imagine hearing from Ceravanne’s throat. “Don’t tell me that,” she whispered fiercely. “I’ve seen what the dronon are up to. They care nothing for us, nothing for each other. They love only their Golden Queen, and they serve her ruthlessly.”
“And yet they want peace,” Gallen said. “They want us to unite with them, and they’re offering … so much in return.”
“What are they offering?”
“Life. Rebirth,” Gallen said. “They’re going to open restrictions on giving rebirth to nonhumans. And anyone can be reborn into the body of their choice, experience life as they desire.
“And peace!” Gallen continued. “In the past, the people of Babel have been slaughtered in ruthless wars, with everyone trying to conquer their neighbors. But among the hosts of the Inhuman, everyone will live fuller lives. I know what it is to be a Yakrist, and now that I know them, I could never harm one of them. That is what the Inhuman offers, a knowledge of our own brotherhood. And the Dronon will take care of the people of Babel.”
“Gallen,” Ceravanne said, looking at him as if he were mad, and a knife of fear stabbed him, for Gallen wondered if he was mad. “The dronon don’t care for us,” she said reasonably. “You can’t imagine that they do. When their own infants are sick or crippled, they grind them up to fertilize their fields. You’re trying to make sense, but the dronon are using your own compassion against you. And it’s damned unfair of them to ask you to be compassionate, when they lack that capacity themselves. They don’t want to free us from our wars and infighting, they want to create nations of slaves with them as our masters. All of the technologies they offer to benefit mankind are technologies we’ve already developed. If they succeed in taking over, just watch them. They’ll give rebirth only to those who serve them best. And they want you to feel good about it.”
Gallen listened to her words carefully, tried to hold on to them, but somehow their meaning evaded him. I used to think like she does, Gallen realized. But when? It seemed to him that his fears of the dronon had stemmed from a dream-a long time ago. Something about Maggie, wearing a Guide, while trapped in a dronon fortress. But just at the moment, he couldn’t recall. Instead, a more pressing argument came to mind. “You are no more human than a dronon is,” Gallen said, brightening. “Why should you rule us?”