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Authors: Julie E. Czerneda
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Morgan’s barriers were impeccably in place now. His face had gone white, sweat gleamed dully on his brow. There was an unfamiliar tightness to his mouth. All he said was: “I thought the testing over.”
“How can it be?” I said sharply, echoes of strain coursing through my mind. “How can I consider you safe when you forget so easily? How dare you enter the power sphere of any Clan without your shields in place? You are not ready. Your power is barely under control.”
“Barac said the same about you.”
I felt the blood drain from my face, but held myself stiff and erect. “I did not expect him to understand.” I thought you would, I added to myself.
Morgan deliberately relaxed his stance, though I noticed that his shields remained firmly in place. “And somehow I must?” he said, as though hearing what I’d left unspoken. Before I could answer that, he waved one hand in a gesture that had never been part of his Human upbringing. “That was uncalled for, Sira. I do understand.” A small, mischievous grin. “And when my head feels better, I’m sure I’ll appreciate this latest lesson.”
Good enough. I rubbed my own head at that reminder. “Withren told me of a village feast.” A peace offering. “I promise no more instruction for tonight.”
Morgan’s eyes were warm again. “And I promise to keep up my shields.”
His tone was light, but I couldn’t keep a sudden irrational fear from edging my own. “Be sure you do, Jason. The day will come when it won’t be me testing their strength.”
INTERLUDE
Hastho’tha, a being inclined to bemoan his fate as less than he deserved (an opinion shared by his three maternal and two paternal parents), was uncharacteristically silent as he walked among the tables of the Spacer’s Haven. His fellow employees gave him wide berth, aware of his mood. Fortunately, there were few conscious patrons at this hour to take offense at his surly mien.
Hastho’tha focused a glowering eye at the black thronelike chair centered among the gaming tables at the other end of the tavern. His table wiper, an elderly, wit-wandering Queeb named Krat, shivered nervously, careful to avoid the heavy hands at the ends of the larger being’s muscular arms. “Warlock!” Hastho’tha spat the word, but quietly. “Things were hard enough under Herself, without bearing this pretender. I tell you, Krat, there is no man-thing born that has the power of a Ram’ad Witch.”
“Yes, Master Hastho’tha,” Krat whimpered automatically, having listened to this particular complaint since waking. Its four flexible tentacles wrapped around cutlery as two more deftly smeared last night’s grime into an even layer on the table. Then all six froze precariously in midmotion. “A lady, Master Hastho’tha,” Krat said almost loudly.
Hastho’tha grunted his opinion of that likelihood, but then he stopped to stare at the richly cloaked female who had just entered. There was something about the tilt of the veiled head, an aura of power and wealth in the way she stood and waited.
The instincts of the head server took over quickly. With an ungentle nudge to Krat to continue working, Hastho’tha moved to guide the newcomer to an already cleaned table, eyes busily assessing the quality of her insystem clothing, so different from that seen on Pocular’s streets. “What does your ladyship require?” he asked almost wistfully.
“The owner. To me,” her voice was pleasant, but with an underlying firmness unused to delay. Hastho’tha bowed gracefully, a courtesy so unlike the burly Poculan that the watching Krat put a heavy smoketray down on top of its wiping tentacles and had to restrain a cry of pain.
Had Krat continued to watch Hastho’tha, it would have certainly understood the gleeful expression on the head server’s face as that worthy headed toward the communications panel behind the bar. Nothing would have pleased Hastho’tha more than the idea of trouble coming to the new owner
“How can it be?” I said sharply, echoes of strain coursing through my mind. “How can I consider you safe when you forget so easily? How dare you enter the power sphere of any Clan without your shields in place? You are not ready. Your power is barely under control.”
“Barac said the same about you.”
I felt the blood drain from my face, but held myself stiff and erect. “I did not expect him to understand.” I thought you would, I added to myself.
Morgan deliberately relaxed his stance, though I noticed that his shields remained firmly in place. “And somehow I must?” he said, as though hearing what I’d left unspoken. Before I could answer that, he waved one hand in a gesture that had never been part of his Human upbringing. “That was uncalled for, Sira. I do understand.” A small, mischievous grin. “And when my head feels better, I’m sure I’ll appreciate this latest lesson.”
Good enough. I rubbed my own head at that reminder. “Withren told me of a village feast.” A peace offering. “I promise no more instruction for tonight.”
Morgan’s eyes were warm again. “And I promise to keep up my shields.”
His tone was light, but I couldn’t keep a sudden irrational fear from edging my own. “Be sure you do, Jason. The day will come when it won’t be me testing their strength.”
INTERLUDE
Hastho’tha, a being inclined to bemoan his fate as less than he deserved (an opinion shared by his three maternal and two paternal parents), was uncharacteristically silent as he walked among the tables of the Spacer’s Haven. His fellow employees gave him wide berth, aware of his mood. Fortunately, there were few conscious patrons at this hour to take offense at his surly mien.
Hastho’tha focused a glowering eye at the black thronelike chair centered among the gaming tables at the other end of the tavern. His table wiper, an elderly, wit-wandering Queeb named Krat, shivered nervously, careful to avoid the heavy hands at the ends of the larger being’s muscular arms. “Warlock!” Hastho’tha spat the word, but quietly. “Things were hard enough under Herself, without bearing this pretender. I tell you, Krat, there is no man-thing born that has the power of a Ram’ad Witch.”
“Yes, Master Hastho’tha,” Krat whimpered automatically, having listened to this particular complaint since waking. Its four flexible tentacles wrapped around cutlery as two more deftly smeared last night’s grime into an even layer on the table. Then all six froze precariously in midmotion. “A lady, Master Hastho’tha,” Krat said almost loudly.
Hastho’tha grunted his opinion of that likelihood, but then he stopped to stare at the richly cloaked female who had just entered. There was something about the tilt of the veiled head, an aura of power and wealth in the way she stood and waited.
The instincts of the head server took over quickly. With an ungentle nudge to Krat to continue working, Hastho’tha moved to guide the newcomer to an already cleaned table, eyes busily assessing the quality of her insystem clothing, so different from that seen on Pocular’s streets. “What does your ladyship require?” he asked almost wistfully.
“The owner. To me,” her voice was pleasant, but with an underlying firmness unused to delay. Hastho’tha bowed gracefully, a courtesy so unlike the burly Poculan that the watching Krat put a heavy smoketray down on top of its wiping tentacles and had to restrain a cry of pain.
Had Krat continued to watch Hastho’tha, it would have certainly understood the gleeful expression on the head server’s face as that worthy headed toward the communications panel behind the bar. Nothing would have pleased Hastho’tha more than the idea of trouble coming to the new owner
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