Braxi-Azea - In Conquest Born Part 43

How did you come to know so much of this? he wondered. But he was also relieved to hear it; if a traditional Braxana understood that much of the psychic world, perhaps it was reasonable that he, too, might have some knowledge of it.

He calmed down somewhat. "That's how I understand it."

They ate for a while in silence; the Pri'tiera was lost in thought, and Feran was not anxious to renew the conversation. After a long time Zatar spoke again. "It would seem to me," he said, "that limited psychic power is not in of itself a terrible thing."

Feran tried not to betray his tension. "I can see that point of view."

Zatar looked up sharply. "I'm glad to hear that." Again Feran sensed an unpleasant undercurrent. For a moment he wished his talent was functioning, that he might read its source, then, horrified, he shoved that thought into the back of his mind and left it there. "True telepathy, of course, is something we could never tolerate, and from what you tell me of the Probes they are dangerous creatures, and I support tradition on that point. But there may be a few things I can work with. . . ."

He stood. "Well, I thank you. You've been most helpful to me in this, Feran, and I appreciate it. Would you do me the pleasure of being my guest this fourthday coming? I'm having a few people over in the evening and I would be pleased if you joined us."

"How can I refuse?" he asked lightly. How, indeed? "I would be honored."

"Excellent. Ni'en will let you know the exact time. I look forward to it, Feran."

I wish I did, the ex-Probe thought sullenly.

He knows.

It came in the middle of the night and awoke him, the dreadful certainty that the secret relied upon for survival was a secret no longer. How? Why? And what on Braxi could he do to save himself?

The most upsetting part of the fourthday gathering came after dinner. Though he was ill at ease among the powerful Kaim'eri who comprised the rest of the company, Feran slowly came to believe that the invitation had been one of genuine good will and was unconnected to whatever suspicions the Pri'tiera might entertain regarding his role in Azean life. Or so he thought until the entertainment began.

"My poet," Zatar introduced simply. "I believe you're all familiar with her work?"

They all were, although Feran had not heard her perform in many years.

Lanst'va was a plain woman of common blood, but the love of art that she radiated made her almost beautiful while performing. She waited for their attention and then began.

What thoughts are these, that I dare call my own? What privacy this, that I defend its sanctuary? How dare I cloak my intent in rituals of silence And inspire the invasion that I will not abide?

The combination of modes she used was beyond Feran's conscious understanding, for they changed too quickly and their purpose was more picturesque than precise. But something in her language disturbed him, beyond the fluid chant of words and the dark flavor of her poetry. Something directed at him, specifically.

This is the bastion of my soul, which I have fortified with spears Against an enemy whose very form is fire. I hold forth my arm and my sword in defiance While the enemy's power seeps into my very blood.

I don't like this, Feran thought.

What thoughts are mine, and which another's fear? The fortress of my hope is laid low, the barriers deserted.

My arm is caught in winds of motion foreign to my soul The enemy sweeps by, is gone, remains . . .

Feran forced his mind away from the entrapment of her words. It means something else, he told himself.When you know all the modes, as I do not, the story is different. It must be!

He forced himself to think of other things. (If he paid no attention to her, would her words affect him anyway?) Like the statue of Anzha lyu that stood in the Museum. Like the single darkest secret of his life, the need to share it, the fear that he would do so. The guilt, and the suffering.

Something made him look toward Zatar. The Pri'tiera was watching him.

Why are you doing this to me? he thought. The words lacked the power to span the s.p.a.ce between them. Once, they didn't. Once he could have lifted the answer delicately from the Pri'tiera's surface mind without Zatar ever being aware of it.

Now he was limited to words, and to all the vulnerability which that implied.

And I am so vulnerable, he thought. He plastered a look of attentiveness on his face and turned to face the poet, but inside he was trying to block out her words and master his unease.

And Zatar kept watching him. Alarmingly, Feran knew it-as certainly as if he were looking back at him, meeting his gaze, hearing his challenge.

The power is coming back, he thought, chilled.

Nightmares: Anzha lyu Mitethe screaming in the darkness, tearing him apart to b.l.o.o.d.y bits and pieces while his hands, bound in heavy bracelets, were helpless to stop her.

He awoke in a cold sweat. Lina was beside him, curled against his arm. She too was awake.

"I just had the most terrible dream," she whispered. His throat tightened; he knew what was coming. "I was being dismembered alive. . . ."

He was frightened.

The Pri'tiera summoned him again.

"Don't look so anxious." He seemed amused. "You act as if I mean to incriminate you merely for having knowledge of a thing you've never experienced." (Surface impression: You have never experienced it . . . have you?) Feran fought down the awareness, forced shut the door to unnatural feeling.

"The subject makes me uncomfortable, Pri'tiera." That was true enough.

Zatar shrugged. "Then you must come to terms with it."

I did! Feran thought. And what right have you, with your prying, to drag it forth from me? To unnerve me so that I lose hold of the self-discipline that has been my only armor against the possibility of Braxin wrath?

Ar, he was shaking. Better stop that, lest Zatar notice. "What do you want to know?"

"Tell me about Telepathic Etiquette."

"Just custom, as I understand it. The mind gives off . . . surface thoughts, a sort of running commentary on things of immediate concern . . . those are up for grabs, being broadcast. One isn't supposed to reach for anything else without deliberate encouragement."

"So there is concern over the possibility of invasion of privacy, after all.

Encouraging. This 'reaching'-as you call it-what does it consist of?"

He forced the lie to his lips. "I don't know, Pri'tiera."

"Nothing? Not even hearsay?"

He wouldn't accept the excuse; this was dangerous ground. How much would a non-psychic really know of such things? "I can tell you only what I've heard." He forced a laugh; the sound seemed hollow even to him. "You can hardly expect me to know the details of such things."

Can't I, the thought came, a whisper entering his mind without his reaching for it.

No!

"Of course not," the Pri'tiera said quietly. "But you've been of tremendous service to me, Feran. Even the little you recall is far more than any another available source has to offer. You'll have a large part to play in whatever decision I finally make."

"What do you think that will be?"

Zatar was amused. "I can hardly say at this point. There's still much to consider.

But I will tell you this: I believe the traditional Braxin fear of telepathy is well- founded where there is the power to alter a man's mind. As I said, psychics we may be able to tolerate-but the elite, the telepaths and the Probes, we cannot."

The words echoed in his surface thoughts; if Zatar were psychic he would see them reflected in the halfbreed's mind. "Interesting," Feran managed. "But what likelihood is there that the psychic strain has survived all these years of bloodshed?"

"You told me yourself that the power comes late in life. Isn't it possible that the only psychics we've been killing are the ones weak enough to be discovered?"

"The power can be evident from birth," he blurted out.

"The Inst.i.tute doesn't believe so."

He met the Pri'tiera's eyes and forced his voice to be steady. "I've heard rumors," he said quietly.

Just rumors. . . .

The h.e.l.l of an uncontrolled planet, heaving torments of geological strata and streams of molten rock forcing their way through the tortured ground to spurt loose on the surface, steaming, flooding, b.l.o.o.d.y ice cras.h.i.+ng down into a sea filled with dark creatures, screaming and crying, shreds of torn flesh caught in the suction of the tidal wave battering the sh.o.r.es and earth breaking loose before the hurricane- "My Lord!"

Lina was shaking him. He clutched at her, shuddering as the vision faded.

"What is it?" she asked, frightened by his need for her.

Slowly the trembling subsided. "Nightmare." His chest was tight in the aftermath of fear. Concern bled into him through her fingertips; he jerked violently away. "An attack of ... fear . . . nothing . . . I'll be all right."

"Just that?" She didn't want to pry but she did want to help.

"Just that," he forced out. "Sleep. I'll be ... all right. Don't worry."

Darkness. Awareness of a self next to him, a female presence pressing against his side. Emptiness and fear-not his own.

I am sorry-I am sorry-I am sorry! Leave me alone!

The visions resumed.

Walking in the streets of Kurat: a woman pa.s.sing, restless at some delay, another whose s.e.xuality lay rich beneath the surface, pleading for attention. A man, annoyed over some business deal, another planning vengeance, a third antic.i.p.ating dinner. A pregnant woman, as yet unaware of her condition. (Oh, B'Salos! Not that much, please!) l.u.s.t. Hunger. Hurry. Exhaustion. Antic.i.p.ation.

Concern.

The House of Zatar.

He put his hand to the plate and the doors parted. "Lord Feran," he announced.

The guard nodded. "You are expected, Lord. In the-"

"-study, yes, I know." Alarmed by his own carelessness, he hastily added, "He already told me."

The guard thought a shrug.

Ar, I'm acting like an amateur! Even children can divorce thought from physicality better than this. Listen to the voice, internalize nothing else. . . .

Zatar welcomed him but offered no wine. In that alcohol dulled the edge of telepathic sensitivity, Feran would have appreciated some. "I'm so glad you could come, Lord Feran."

He knows, he knows, he knows. . . .

"I'm glad to be of service." Leave me alone!

They sat. Zatar pulled and turned on a ringrecorder. "Tell me what you know of the Disciplines."

Nothing! Nothing! What would a non-psychic know of such things? "I ... really don't know, Pri'tiera."

"Nothing at all?" (I don't believe you.) "Not even the names of some of them?"

"There is . . . Touch Discipline, I think." (Why that one? Why do I torment myself?) "And . . . something affecting recall. . . ."

"Memory Discipline," he prompted.

"If you know, why ask me?" Feran's tone was blatantly miserable.

Ever calm, ever in control, Zatar smiled. "Don't be upset, Feran. I want some things that are buried deep in your memory, obscured by years of Braxin life. I'm trying to push you to reach for those things. Since you're not a psychic you can't have complete knowledge of the telepathic world-I realize that-but you may have heard enough here and there to be useful, if I can unearth it. Don't worry, Lord Feran." There was amus.e.m.e.nt in his voice. "I don't bear you any malice for what you remember."

You would if you understood. "I . . . don't feel well, Pri'tiera. I think that's the problem. Do you think we could continue this some other time?"

The dark eyes fixed on him, exploring his soul. For a moment Feran was lost in the memory of a child's terror, staring into the eyes of a predator and knowing, This one is deadly. This one hungers for the kill. Then it was gone, and the present returned.

"Very well," Zatar said finally. "If you think it will help."

Nothing will help but confession, but oh, I dare not! Why do you drive me like this, Zatar-why not just kill me and be done with it!"

"Thank you," he managed. "Thank you."

"Tomorrow?"

The velvet eyes, the hate, the hunger. . . ." Tomorrow will be fine."

"Take care, Lord Feran." A hunter's smile, a hunter's aura. "I hope you feel better."

I hope I do, too.