“Since we came here.”
Once said, the words were like the mended clothing spread over the expensive floor. Out of place. Impossible to ignore. Aryl gestured apology and wasn’t sure why.
“Is that what we tell our children?” Enris asked, drawing in his feet, his face clouded. “Is that our future? Power to be the measure of a M’hiray’s worth. Power to be what decides right from wrong. Will it be our excuse for every mistake?”
Aryl went to sit on the floor beside him. She laid her cheek on his knee, felt his fingers seek comfort in her hair. Power is all we have. We need it to protect ourselves. We need it to survive among the Humans. The wealth from the artifacts wouldn’t last; already scouts on other worlds sought Humans who could keep wealth flowing to the Clan, more Humans susceptible to their “influence.” They had no other choice. Only Power will keep our children safe.
Enris pressed his lips to her head. What if that’s why we’re here?
She twisted to meet his somber gaze. “What do you mean?”
“What if our mothers and fathers had planned a different path for our kind? What if we—the M’hiray—were the ones who became ‘difficult,’ like Yao, and refused to do what we were told?”
“So our families threw us out? Took our memories so we’d never come back?” About to protest, Aryl found the words died in her throat. Being terrible to contemplate didn’t make it wrong.
He sighed. “All I know is that believing we left because we were somehow superior is dangerous. It encourages M’hiray like Oran, who already judge others by Power alone. Power shouldn’t mean privilege.”
“Of course not,” Aryl scowled. “Those with more Power have a duty to those with less.”
Enris smiled slowly, his eyes growing bright. “Which is why you—” he interrupted himself to give her an enthusiastic kiss, “—will be such a fine First Chosen for the House of Sarc. And mother.” With a nerve-tingling surge of affection and heat.
Pushing all other thoughts aside, she leaned in happily. He laughed and held her away. “Yao?”
She’d had to mention duty.
But first . . . with desire blazing across their link, Aryl took his hand and concentrated . . .
... after all, being First Chosen of Sarc entitled her to a very large and private bedroom.
Aryl dressed. A loud snore made her smile, a smile so deep and shared she watched it curve his sleeping lips. Chosen could do that.
Loath as she was to leave Enris, he’d been right. Yao needed to be found. By her, no one else. On impulse, Aryl slipped the mysterious image disk into a pocket. From the clothes in her pack, she’d always preferred pockets.
She tried again to tug her favorite jacket down over her stomach, then gave up. After the baby was born, it would fit.
No need to play ’port and seek through the Tower and startle those enjoying their evening. She couldn’t catch the child that way regardless. There were rooms in the extravagant building even she hadn’t seen, whether because of the sheer size of the place or because they were the domain of ’bots. Aryl frowned. Humans appeared to accept the mindless servants. No M’hiray was comfortable in their presence.
The Tower contained three hundred and forty apartments, each large and luxurious, plus nine that were more like buildings within a building. These would be home to the families staying here, with the topmost belonging to Sarc. And its roof, Aryl thought contentedly.
Among her duties as First Chosen, she decided, would be the manners Husni wanted. No surprise ’ports, unless an emergency. Polite farewells before disappearing. Not that children would pay attention, but it would help.
Yao.
Aryl nodded to herself and added a handlight to her pocket. The best place to escape an unwanted future?
In the only past they knew.
The lights no longer worked. Aryl switched on hers before she moved, though there was one glow in the darkness. A small fire burned on the stage. A smaller hand fed it.
Aryl took her time climbing down the ledges between. When she spotted a piece of debris that would burn, she picked it up. She had a small armload by the time she reached the bottom. “May I join you?”
Yao’s eyes caught the firelight, reflected red and yellow. “If you want.”
Impeccable shields. To Aryl’s inner sense, the little figure seated across from her was almost invisible. No matter. She made herself comfortable, added a handful to the fire.
Waited.
The flames took her offering; the extra light revealed dusty knees covered with scrapes. The injuries were new since yesterday; the healing process well underway. Power indeed. “Oran’s left.”
The knees pulled out of the light. “Don’t care.” Very quiet. Very sure.
Aryl pulled out the image disk. “This was with my things—from before.” She turned it over and over in her hands. It had finger-sized depressions on both sides but poking them accomplished nothing. “I think it’s broken.”
“You aren’t doing it right.”
She held it out without a word or smile. A shadow became Yao, who took the device. Careful not to touch skin.
Too young for the caution of an adult; too old to forget it now.
She could have intervened at the start, Aryl realized with sudden guilt. Being First Chosen, it was her responsibility to speak up for those who looked to her.
Yao didn’t go back to the other side; she did, however, stay out of reach. “Like this,” she announced, holding the device in both small hands. She pressed several places at once.
No wonder it hadn’t worked for her, Aryl thought with wry amusement, then stared as four figures took shape above the fire.
“They aren’t real,” Yao assured her.
Two adult females, two children. Human, if appearance could be trusted. The one adult had long red hair, and held the youngest. A girl. The older child was a boy.
“Why would I have images of strangers in my pack?”
“They aren’t strangers,” as if she was being silly. “This is his family. Marcus’.”
The name from the artifacts. Aryl swallowed, staring at the Humans. “Marcus Bowman.”
“That’s right!” Yao smiled. “I wanted him for my father because . . . because . . . “ Her smile faded. “I don’t understand,” she said, her voice trembling. “Why do I think my father—my real father—how can I think he didn’t love me before?”
Because he hadn’t. Aryl knew it, as surely as she knew her own name. Hoyon d’sud Gethen had spurned his own daughter, his only child, until arriving on Stonerim III. Why, she couldn’t imagine, feeling sick inside.
“We don’t—we don’t remember our lives before coming here, Yao. Maybe that’s for the best. Your father loves you now. You know that.”
“Will he love me tomorrow?”
Children made a game of falling. Dared the worst to happen. Taught themselves to survive. She wasn’t as brave as a child anymore, Aryl realized. She didn’t dare answer such a question.
Then the image changed. “I didn’t do that,” Yao said quickly.
A face gazed at them over the sinking fire. “It’s all right,” Aryl heard herself say. But it wasn’t. It wasn’t all right. Her breath caught in her throat. Her pulse pounded. She knew that face, even battered and bruised.
The lips moved. Yao did something and the quiet voice rose to every ledge in the Buried Theater. The voice that belonged here.
“My name is . . . Marcus Bowman. This . . . device contains my . . . final message for my . . . daughter. Karina Bowman . . . Norval, Stonerim III . . . Anyone who finds . . . this. Please take . . . it to the nearest . . . offworld authority . . . Make sure she . . . hears this. Please.”
The image and voice vanished.