Braxi-Azea - In Conquest Born Part 44

He whimpered in the night, and there was no one to hear him. He dared not sleep with a woman lest he share the terrible dreams and so reveal himself.

Anzha lyu beckons to him, a bloodstained child with empty orbital fossi and a third eye branded into her forehead. "I've been waiting, Feran. Come join me. . .

Wake me up, wake me up!

The earth shakes, the sky thunders. Pieces of rock fall down all around him, and hailstones the size of fists plummet from the heavens, only to barely miss his head. He runs, terrified, and a chasm splits beneath his feet, releasing a gasp of hot air and sulfurous fumes that send him choking into the volcanic depths, falling, screaming . . .

In the morning he walked the streets, shaken, preferring the surface thoughts of strangers to the unpleasant tangle of foreboding that his House had become. How many had shared his dream? At least five, probably more. It was the talk of the morning.

His powers were coming back, but his control wasn't: that was the painful, unavoidable reality of his situation. He was as helpless in the grip of his power as he had been those many years ago, when p.u.b.erty and full telepathy fought for dominance of his attention and both were broadcast to all hearing minds in the Inst.i.tute and even further. Those had been terrible years; he had barely survived them, crying night after night in fearful hysteria and practicing the Disciplines until his mind was numb, trying to turn it off . . . why wouldn't those same Disciplines work now? *

It's been too long, he admitted. I'm out of practice. There's no magic to it- simply a skill which once learned can be forgotten. I forgot it.

He knew the solution, but it frightened him. He would have to learn control all over again, drill the alien patterns into his inner mind until the needed protection snapped easily into place with a simple memorized stimulus.

But once I begin that process, he thought, I'm utterly committed. All the sensitivity will come back to me, all the power I worked so hard to bury. I'll be a telepath again. And worse . . .I'll have the memories.

On the far side of Kurat he found an appealing woman whose surface mind was amenable to more intimate contact than the streets allowed. Calmer, he invited her to his House; she accepted, gladly. Arousal glowed about her like a beacon, and for a moment he was almost glad for his reawakening.

But when he touched her she trembled, and when he attempted to lose his fears in the warmth of her flesh she drew away from him, frightened.

Touch Discipline, he begged. The barely-remembered pattern flooded his mind.

He touched her again, feeling the softness of her skin beneath his hand and the warmth of fingers on his female shoulder, resonating dual pleasure. . . .

She screamed and she fainted, and when she came to, she cried. He killed her.

He had to. He would have to kill from now on, if he meant to have pleasure.

B'Salos! he thought, trembling uncontrollably.What am I going to do?

Fearful but determined, Feran raised his hand to the doorplate.

"Welcome, Lord Feran." The guard was his usual amenable self. "The Pri'tiera is waiting for you in his study."

He walked the distance slowly. Do I look like a doomed man? he wondered.

He would throw himself on Zatar's mercy. Or rather, he would confess his power and ask for asylum. The Braxana had no equivalent of mercy and scorned compa.s.sion in all its manifestations, but Zatar would understand the usefulness of having a telepathic ally and would spare his life. Perhaps. But if he were to discover the secret himself, Feran knew, then the Probe's life would be forefeit. A choice between death and destruction, he thought grimly. But still my choice.

With a pounding heart he rapped once to announce his arrival.

A slave opened the door and bowed as he entered, then pa.s.sed by him in exit.

Lounging comfortably, the Pri'tiera nodded. "Feeling better?"

He drew a deep breath, albeit a shaky one. Wait through the preliminary social repartee? Bring the matter up right at the beginning? Suddenly he found he lacked courage.

"Have a seat, Feran. You don't look well at all." Again that faint taste of triumph to make the words biting. He knows, Feran a.s.sured himself. No man would act like this who didn't.

He sat, and at least there was the comfort of letting his legs relinquish the weight of his body to a more solid support. "I have a question, Pri'tiera, regarding the things we've been discussing."

He nodded pleasantly. "I'm listening."

"You said once-or implied-that there might be psychics living among the Braxins all along, who had never been discovered because they learned to hide their secret before anyone noticed their abnormality." Courage! "What would you do with such people?"

"Again, you rush me. The particulars of this issue are complicated, and Braxin society is hardly ready to tolerate such men, regardless of my will. Yes, ruler though I am, I need to be careful-too strong a defiance of tradition can unsettle my throne yet. But, in general, let me say this: mild psychic power, I believe, could be safely channeled-no, let me say instead must be safely channeled. If our enemies have this power, Feran, then we can't afford to ignore it. The lesser psychics could be tolerated, if our society were properly prepared to receive them.

I see no hope, however, of controlling the greater talents. Everything I read, every word you speak, convinces me they must die if the fabric of our culture is to be maintained. That's my current thinking. Does it answer your question?"

All too well. "Yes." There is no hope. "Thank you."

"Telepaths only, you understand. And Probes. The rest might be spared, for their limitations make them vulnerable, and thus they can be controlled."

But where does that leave me? "I understand, Pri'tiera."

"Now, to the business of the day." He sat upright, running his questions through his mind and a.s.signing them an order. "I would like to return to Touch Discipline. What can you tell me?"

Everything. Nothing. To his horror, Feran discovered he had forgotten what he had already told Zatar regarding his knowledge of that Discipline. All he needed now was to contradict himself! But he was shaken by the disruption of his plans and could hardly bring himself to speak, much less think. "I . . . don't remember, Pri'tiera." He didn't dare reveal himself, he knew that now. But everything was in chaos.

"Then let's start with something simpler." He looked concerned, but his surface thoughts sent a different message entirely, You are mine! "You don't look well at all, Feran. Can I get you anything?"

"Some wine," he murmured. "Foreign." He couldn't handle the trace hallucinogens which were present in the Central vintages. "Please."

Zatar called for a servant and pa.s.sed on the order; a few minutes later the wine came. The Pri'tiera poured, in silence.

"Try this," he offered.

Feran took the goblet and raised it to his lips. Half of his mind begged for physical control, for the delicacy of the upper cla.s.s, the gracefulness that would disguise his inner turmoil. But the desperate half of him needed the alcohol in his system to help shut out the other man's thoughts, and he downed it quickly.

Minds dulled-his, and that which he was reading. "I'm ready," he said at last.

"Are you sure?" Zatar asked him.

The room was swimming. Too much wine, on too little sleep. How many days since he had gotten rest?

"Pri'tiera, I-"

This was wrong. This wasn't the alcohol, it was something else-but something in the drink, certainly. Yes. Was this a vintage he had never tried, whose hallucinogens were not acceptable to his system? Or ... would Zatar drug him? . . .

why?

He tried to speak. Instead, he fell.

Blackness.

A planet is a hideous thing, a ma.s.s of seething malignance bound together by wild and unstable gravity. It boils, it slides, it buries life in its fathomless depths and suffocates it with miles of dirt and ash. The rocks grind and the mountains tremble and lightning rains down from the heavens to eradicate man, who has dared to sully its surface and threaten all with his dreams of a controlled environment. A planet abides that life which accepts its whims, but man it rejects, man it seeks to obliterate, pitting the monumental force of its instability against that pitiful life form, driving man forth to seek the stars or die. See! The flowing hot rock of the volcano's fury, the destructive trembling of the earthquake, the awesome motion of the seas and the rhythm of the icy regions with their capture and release of water-all beyond the hand of man, all determined to humble his arrogance in a display of absolute devastation. The mountains revolt at last and move to crush you, and winds to drive the seeds of illness into your skin and eyes. Below you the earth is seething with dark intent, waiting for the perfect moment to claim you for its vengeance. Don't stand still a moment longer than you have to! Visit no land twice, lest it know you too well, learning your weaknesses, plotting your demise! Flee, daughter of the stars, child of the dark and empty regions, before this hot realm rejects you entirely and crushes your soul in its killing embrace! There, in the darkness between the stars, there is peace, there is safety. Run to it child, run. . . !

He awoke in a strange room.

Hasha.

He had dreamed it again, just like in the old days. A nightmare rising from the depths of his guilt: images he had placed in a young girl's mind, returned to haunt him. Anzha lyu's conditioning.

And then the most terrible knowledge of all: I shared it.

His heart was still pounding and only slowly did it resume its normal rhythm.

His face was cold and wet, and his clothing adhered to his skin.

Where am I?

As soon as he asked it, he knew-the House of Zatar.

And he remembered.

A tendril of thought searched the room for contact, found none. He was alone. The tears came then, and the shaking, so violent that he terrified himself with the outpouring of emotion. Keep it contained, he begged himself, don't broadcast it to the others! But he knew he had lost all control, and that last night he had had none whatsoever, and that he had dreamed his dream for the whole House to see. If they realized it ....

I am doomed.

He rose. His joints were stiff and the wool clung to his trembling limbs. His legs would barely support him. I look a mess, he thought-Braxana reflex. Then he laughed, mirthlessly.

What does it matter?

A sudden vertigo of helplessness almost brought him to his knees. What would he do? Where would he go? How would he live, and how hide his power, when it had become so strong?

Fool! he answered bitterly. The whole House knows by now, which means that he surely does.

Why has he let me live this long?

It was just a glimmer of hope, but he grasped at it.

If the power was controlled, Zatar would tolerate it. If he himself controlled it, surely he could trust it!

His legs grew slowly steady; his chest stopped heaving and air came more easily to him. Hope? Did he dare?

It was that or die. And bless you all, he thought, I want to live!

When he had at least partial control over his body he wiped the wetness from his face and braved the door that led into the light.

A servant bowed, appearing not to notice his disheveled state. "My Lord."

"Where is Zatar?" His voice was uneven, his throat tight.

"In his library, Lord. Do you wish to be taken to him?"

Yes. "Yes." Speaking did not come easily to him. Nor did walking, as he realized while following the servant. His body was preparing for death, gathering itself together in antic.i.p.ation of the final condemnation.

The servant slipped into the library and announced him. A moment later he was ushered inside.

"My Lord . . ."

He lost nerve.

"Yes?"

He was drowning in a sea of the other man's power and could not get hold of his intent.

Zatar watched him for a moment and then called for his Mistress. She must have been nearby for she appeared but a moment later, from a room at the rear of the library.

The Pri'tiera pointed to Feran. "Get the Probe a drink."

The walls of fear closed in and he was crying, crying, voice and soul pouring out anguish and fear and pleading, not wanting to die, not knowing how to live. . . .

A goblet was touched to his lips. He looked up and visions swam before his eyes: a tall and dangerous man, a kneeling, supportive woman. He sipped the wine. Central. Strong. His vision cleared.

"Leave us," Zatar ordered.

His Mistress left them alone together.

"Pri'tiera," he gasped. "Take the power! Use it! I will serve you in everything!

Please. . . ."

Zatar waited.

Slowly, understanding, Feran looked up at him. Trembling, he extended his arms before him, his hands turned palm down. Despite the shame of the act there was a comfort to it, as though he had finally made a commitment so total that now his fate was out of his own hands entirely. And it was. He waited.

"A gesture," the Pri'tiera said at last. "And perhaps, on the surface, sincere. But beneath that?"

Horrified, Feran drew back. It had never occurred to him that he might be rejected. "What do you want? What must I do?"

"Prove your commitment. Tell me what I want to know."

"Anything!"