Julie E. Czerneda - Trade Pact 2 - Ties of Power

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Ties of Power

Trade Pact Universe 2

By Julie E. Czerneda

PRELUDE

MEMORIES and socks.

Barac sud Sarc, Third Level Adept and former First Scout of the Clan, shook his head as he

added the holocube image of his murdered brother Kurr to the clothes already in the travel

case. Memories, indeed.

I wondered when you would go, the words formed in his mind, the touch soft and familiar.

"First Chosen," Barac acknowledged out loud, continuing to pack. "Come in—" He triggered

the locking mechanism on the door with a thought.

His mother entered, her movements gracious despite the pain he could sense rippling the

unseen M'hir between them. The M'hir. Barac swallowed, suddenly unsure how long it would

be before he could touch another of his kind this way. Clan philosophers debated if the M'hir

had existed before Clan thought, some believing it to have been an emptiness waiting to be

filled with Clan power, others arguing it was a construct of Clan minds and not truly a place at

all. Like most, Barac merely accepted that every Clan mind existed in part there, in that

nothingness through which Clan thoughts and form could pass at will. It was the medium

making them one, regardless of strength or ability. Or dispute.

Barac studied his mother's face, feeling as though he had to memorize every detail: the

delicately pale skin and fine bone structure he saw in every mirror, the dark eyes and generous

mouth edged by laughter lines.

Not at this moment, however. "Where will you go?" she asked calmly enough, aloud. It

was her right to question his intentions—not as his mother, Clan family structure was almost

nonexistent—but as Enora, First Chosen of the House of sud Sarc.

Barac tossed an old coat on the lopsided pile of discards covering his bed and some of the

floor. "Must be time to move on," he commented instead of answering directly. "Look at all this

junk!"

"You could stay."

He hesitated in the midst of closing the final bag, then made his decision. He turned to face

her. "If you knew what I do, First Chosen, you'd send me yourself."

Enora frowned, taking a step closer to her son. Her elegant hand waved in a complex

gesture, as if drawing threads from the air. "What are you talking about, Barac? Why would

I—?"

Barac shook his head. It's time you saw the Clan Council as I do, he sent. He opened his

thoughts to hers, using his greater strength to forge the gentlest of links with her ordered mind,

then drew her into his memories, letting Enora relive with him events of which she'd only been

told. And, as the Clan knew well, words were the easiest way to lie.

It didn't take long. Barac withdrew, soberly watching his mother as she groped one-handed

for a chair's back, oriented herself, then sank down into it slowly. "Sira—" she whispered,

shying from the intimacy of mind touch as she sought to control her emotional response. "A

lawbreaker. She did all this, herself?"

Barac waited, knowing what his mother struggled to reconcile. Enora had been a Chooser

herself, once, as all Clan females were.

Choosers possessed the Power-of-Choice, an uncontrollable force within themselves that

instinctively tested the strength of unChosen males within the M'hir. Win or draw, and the

Joining formed, a permanent connection between a pair through that other space, regardless

of distance, severed only by death. The Chosen female Commenced, her body altering to its

reproductive state.

Losing males were rejected. A Chooser could be patient, since their bodies, untouched by

physiological aging, would wait as long as necessary for the moment of Choice.

But with each generation, the Power-of-Choice had become stronger, more dangerous. The

Clan Council, hungry to increase the abilities of the Clan, hastened the process by preselecting

the strongest male candidates for Choice. After all, to the Clan, power was everything: status,

currency, and life.

It took only two generations for Choosers to be born who were powerful enough to kill

weaker males during the Test. Fewer and fewer Joinings were successful. The inevitable result?

The birth of Sira di Sarc, a Chooser so powerful, so potent, that no male could survive her

testing.

Barac's memory of Sira carried the taste of longing, the overwhelming desire any

unChosen felt for such power, and a self-preserving dose of fear. Yet he knew the person as

well as the legend: outwardly fragile and ordinary, an easily-overlooked shadow with wide-set

gray eyes and solemn expression; inwardly, self-willed and brilliant, brimming with power

awaiting release.

Sira had willingly gone into seclusion to protect the unChosen. She had used the years of

her isolation to study the population dynamics of her species. She was given access to the old

records, from the time when the M'hiray—the 730 individuals possessing the mutation

allowing them to use the M'hir—had been forced to leave the Clan Homeworld during the

Stratification of their species. It didn't take her long to discover that not only were the M'hiray

in trouble, her own existence, a female who could not find a mate of her kind, meant that

extinction was close at hand. She proposed alternatives, the most promising being to test the

Power-of-Choice against the mind of another telepathic species, such as a Human. The subject

might die, but perhaps the Chooser would Commence and become reproductive without

risking more Clan lives.

The Clan Council accepted her conclusions about the danger to the M'hiray. The Council

didn't accept Sira's proposal, utterly rejecting any possibility of a Choice involving a Human.

Such a violation of Clan ways was unthinkable. Instead, they decided on a different solution.

They would erase the mind of the most powerful and desirable Chooser, Sira herself, in an

attempt to destroy the Power-of-Choice and bring her precious genetic makeup back into the

Clan pool.

Sira was warned. She selected a Human for her experiment, a telepath named Jason

Morgan. To protect any unChosen she might encounter, she underwent stasis, the procedure

that temporarily blocked a Chooser's powers. To make it possible to undergo Choice with a

Human and a stranger, her memories were ruthlessly suppressed, ridding her of all identity,

substituting compulsions that would send her directly to the Human and the moment of

Choice.

"She broke the Law," Barac agreed. "But so did the Council."

Enora shook her head. "I know. What they tried to do was wrong. But Sira—I saw for

myself how she cared for this Human, even after her memories were restored. She learned to

control the Power-of-Choice in order to save him. How could she—"

"Justify herself to Morgan?" the Clansman smiled. "All I can say is, Morgan is a

remarkable being. He risked his life to save her, and risked losing her to bring back her past."

"Such caring is rare among the Joined," Enora said almost wistfully. "I can see she would

value it." Her voice firmed. "Nothing you've shown me explains why you are so intent on

leaving."

"Efforts were made to keep Sira from Morgan. One of them resulted in Kurr's murder."

"Yihtor di Caraat killed your brother," Enora said, her face growing pale but still composed.

"Yihtor's mind was erased for his infamy and his House name removed from the M'hiray. It is

over, Barac."

"Yihtor was merely the weapon, First Chosen. Kurr was someone's messenger—an

expendable messenger."

His mother's eyes narrowed. Barac felt the troubling in the M'hir between them as she

fought to keep her thoughts private. He knew better than to reach for them. "Whose

messenger? Who is responsible for Kurr's death?"

Barac shook his head sharply. "I don't know. But Sira does. She wouldn't tell me, not in

front of the Council."

"So you would seek her out now." Enora paused. "I agree you should go. But even if you

can find her, Barac, she may not want to see you."

Barac closed his eyes briefly. Then he picked up both travel bags and said without facing

Enora: "She'll see me. We have something in common now."

He began to concentrate, preparing the mental image that would guide his passage through

the M'hir, sidestepping space and leaving his troubles behind on this planet that was no longer

his home.

We have both been driven into exile, he sent into her thoughts, surrounding the bare words

with the taste of his despair and a glimmer of what might have been hope. Good-bye.

Barac pushed…

And disappeared. The air in the room shifted slightly to fill the space where he had been.

Enora, First Chosen, walked slowly over to the pile of unwanted clothes. She picked up a

shirt, faded gold threads taking fire from the light as she folded it in her hands. "Imagine

saving this," the Clanswoman murmured.

She brought the shirt up to her cheek. The fabric trapped a tear. "One son murdered," she

whispered to the tiny damp spot. "And now, the other son gone. Who is doing this to us?"

"So. Here to see the Witch?" a silky voice breathed into Barac's ear. Maintaining an

expression he hoped wasn't too forbidding, Barac turned to look at the being standing next to

him along the bar's edge, only to frown in distasteful recognition. A Drapsk.

Worse still, there now seemed to be a full ship's complement of the creatures arranging

themselves in seats vacated as if prearranged. The Spacer's Haven—at least this end of the long,

dim room making up the public area of the popular gambling den—became almost totally

Drapsk within minutes.

Barac sighed. This was the right world. No credit to his Talent: Morgan's ship, the Silver

Fox, stood age-dark yet sturdy among the ranks of other traders in Pocular's shipcity, name

and rating for cargo posted with the rest. The Haven might even be the right place, although it

had been almost a standard year since he'd heard Sira declare a desire to learn how to gamble.

Who was to say how long that had lasted? At least it was a place to ask discreet questions. He

did know a chorus of Drapsk was hardly the right company if he wanted to find his cousin

without arousing attention.

On the other hand, the Haven was warm and dry, his cautious searching thus far had

lasted three long and unsuccessful days among backward, unhelpful beings, and Barac found

himself simply too tired and comfortable to care.

Resigned to the moment and his new companion, the Clansman took another sip of

inferior brandy, shuddered, and asked the obvious question. "What witch, Captain?" Polite to

avoid under-ranking a Drapsk; all individual Drapsk appeared identical, with no recognizable

features or expressions on their flat, eyeless faces. Polite and also wise. The huge Drapsk

trading ships were crewed by tribes, every member closely related in some fashion they'd never

shared with aliens. Drapsk thus had a regrettable tendency to respond as a unit to any real or

imagined insult against their own; a trait which granted them respectful treatment even in a

cesspool like the Haven.

"Oh, a true Ram'ad Witch, Hom," the Drapsk persisted, taking a seat on the stool next to

Barac without so much as an acknowledgment toward its former occupant (a Human who

had quickly decided to blend into the surrounding crowd). Six fleshy tentacles—bright red and

distractingly mobile—surrounded its tiny bud of a mouth. A pair of truly spectacular antennae

plumed in purples and pinks rose from the alien's brow. They dipped toward Barac, then

fluttered as if confused. "Since you seemed a watcher rather than a games' player or backer, I

assumed you were another fan. Am I in error?"

Barac ordered a drink for his new and uncomfortably observant source of information,

finding it easier to talk over the Drapsk's shoulder rather than look directly into its tentacled

globe of a face. "A fan of magic, Hom Captain? Not particularly. But I enjoy new experiences."

The Drapsk's weakness for the occult was well-known. Barac remembered several jokes—all

concerned with the gullibility of a Drapsk and the size of its purse. Then he glanced at the silent

group of Drapsk around him—quiet, well-armed, and intent—and decided this joke was not

necessarily complete. Perhaps he would wait and see this "witch" for himself.

Two hours later, Barac tossed yet another handful of currency gems on the bar and decided

enough was enough. The Drapsk had proved able to consume seemingly endless amounts of its

chosen beverage; more to the point, there was still no sign of its "witch." High time he tried his

luck elsewhere. "Well, Maka," he announced, eyes flicking to the container firmly affixed to the

creature's mouth by the cluster of tentacles. "I can't stay all night waiting on your witch,

pleasant as your company has been." Frustrating company as well, for anyone else Barac

might have questioned about Sira or Morgan had given the Drapsk—and their chosen

companion—wide berth indeed.

Antennae fluttered in acknowledgment; the container didn't budge. Barac stood and bowed

his farewell, praying that the creatures didn't take it on themselves to follow him out of this bar

and into the next in line along the street. But he had only started to raise his hood, the water

streaming from the clothing of latecomers a warning of conditions outside, when the lights

flickered and dimmed. The myriad sounds of the place—voices high, low, and mechanical,

music competing in volume, the click of playing pieces—stopped, except for the rolling of one

die as it hit the confining wall of a table and bounced back into the center.

"Behold, my impatient friend," said the Drapsk with too-loud satisfaction in that hush. "The

Ram'ad Witch. The owner—nay, the Queen—of this place."

Barac stood as spellbound as the rest as a form ever so slowly materialized out of the

haze-filled air to become solid, living, seated on the black throne. But in the silence, his quick

gasp turned nearby heads his way with unwelcome attention. Barac subsided, though his eyes

remained fixed on the graceful figure dressed in flowing white.

A delicate hand gestured, and the lights returned, the noise becoming deafening once more

as the various patrons accepted with the ease of familiarity the dramatic appearance of their

mistress. Barac was unable to look safely away before wide-set, knowing, gray eyes pierced the

yellow smoke and confusion to meet and hold his.

The Drapsk, mistaking the direction of the witch's gaze perhaps, chittered excitedly among

themselves. Barac ignored them, breaking free of the thrall that had held him, but answering

the summons of those eyes nonetheless—moving slowly, inexorably toward the platform.

A path cleared for him as others became aware of what was occurring. There were

comments whispered in his ear as he passed—suggestions that would have made him turn on

the speaker had this place not given such words unspeakable conviction. So when at last Barac

stood at the steps leading up to the occupant of the black throne, he refused to look into her

face any longer, lowering his gaze to the heavy barbaric jewelry barely covering the whiteness

of her breasts, to the gleam of gem-encrusted bands around each wrist and ankle.

Of all the possible fates he had imagined for his dear cousin, of all the places he would have

sought for her—that gentle, tormented Sira might descend into the darkness of a fringe-system

hellhole where all things were for sale, if they weren't stolen first—that possibility had never

even entered his mind.

Chapter I

"PREPARE us something warm, Kupla. Some sombay with that spice of Meragg's," I

ordered briskly, making my own sound and movement cover the statuelike immobility of my

most unexpected guest. My personal servant scurried away without a backward glance. For

myself, I couldn't take my eyes from Barac's lowered head, his thick black hair immaculate as

always despite the weather outside this night.

Outwardly, nothing of my cousin had changed. If he thought a cheaply-cut coat and a

slouch could hide the natural arrogance of the Clan, he was sadly mistaken. His elegant

charm, I thought to myself, stands out more in contrast. I was surprised a thief hadn't tried

his pockets yet. Or maybe one had, and soon learned not to trust appearances. By Clan

standards, Barac sud Sarc might be weak, but he had other defenses.

But why was he here? Why now? What did it mean? Questions I hesitated to ask in such a

public place tumbled through my thoughts.

Any joy in seeing him was held hard in check by the suspicions racing through my

mind—suspicions of Council interference in my plans, suspicions of the old struggles beginning

anew.

The drinks arrived, carried with skill through the crowd and deposited on a small black

pedestal within reach of my hand. "A seat for my guest, Kupla," I was able to say. "Then you

may leave us." Barac's eyes flashed up to mine at this—ablaze with some emotion—yet he

moved stiffly to climb the dais and sit on the offered stool. The corner of my mind I permitted

to have such concerns registered amusement at his obvious distress, admiring the way he

accepted the steaming cup and deliberately turned his attention to the milling crowd. I sipped

my own; I couldn't taste it.

"Welcome, Cousin," I said quietly. "At least, I'd like to think so. Why are you here?"

Barac refused to meet my eyes. "Why are you, Sira?" he asked in an oddly anguished

whisper. "What are you doing here? Do you know what they call you? What they say about

you?"

I laughed; I couldn't help it nor did I try. The bulbous-eyed croupier at the nearest table

lost his concentration to stare at me and so also lost half the credits stacked before him to a

quick-fingered neighbor. "Excuse me, Cousin," I apologized, just as glad for a chance to absorb

the shock of Barac's arrival. "Business." Ignoring Barac for the moment, I sought through the

thickness of bodies for the one I wanted. There. A conveniently vulnerable mind. Quickly, I

pinned the stealthily moving culprit in place, sending a quick mental summons to my nearest

guardsman. Ripples of awareness spread from the spot where the wild-eyed Human stood

immobilized by my will. Beings moved away on either side, leaving her exposed and encircled.

I stood with deliberate slowness. My guardsman pounded up, stun whip loose and ready in

his hand. The regular patrons of the Haven looked expectant, while the croupier's

thick-featured face oozed satisfaction—one of the less pleasant aspects of hiring Foweans being

their tendency to secrete a glistening green mucus when cheerful. I wasn't the only one to

swallow uncomfortably as the croupier hastily wiped his facial glands on a sleeve. From the

glazed look of his garment, the House had been winning steadily tonight. No wonder his table

was almost empty.

"Win from me if you can, Human," I said into the attentive quiet. "But no one steals from

me." I released the control of her body back to her mind and watched her stagger only briefly.

Coolly, the thief reached into one voluminous sleeve and removed more metal disks than I'd

seen her steal.

"Only in the Haven have I met my match," the woman said in a low pleasant voice,

inclining her head to me just so, holding on to her pride. Doubtless a professional criminal; this

world had many such. "One cannot steal from those protected by magic," she continued

ruefully.

I hid a smile. "But anyone can steal from a fool," I countered. At this, the crowd rumbled

approval, and the croupier's triangular mouth gaped open anxiously. With a dramatic, and

quite unnecessary, gesture, I performed my most popular feat of "magic." The figure of the

croupier vanished with a sigh of displaced air.

"Keep your winnings," I continued, sitting, quite as if nothing untoward had happened. The

Drapsk at the other end of the hall hummed in delighted unison. The would-be thief clutched

her booty and melted into the crowd. Things returned to normal.

"Where did you send the Fowean?" Barac's voice was his own again, level, expressing polite

interest and little else. Much better, I thought, but to myself.

"Just out in the rain," I pitched my voice for his ears alone. "Such tricks are good for

business—and keep my dealers honest."

"And they amuse you. Is that what you've found here, Sira? Amusement?"

Maybe I'd been wrong about Barac regaining his composure. His eyes held some of the

same uncomprehending wildness as had the pinned thief's.

"Barac sud Sarc," I said softly, adding the configuration of heart-kin to the bare words. "If

you've come to see me, you don't seem very pleased about it."

Barac shuddered—his hand made a short violent gesture at the seething mass of noisy,

gambling beings around us, many almost oblivious to their surroundings and certainly

oblivious to us. "How can I be pleased to see you like this, to see you waste yourself with such

filth, to be part of the port scum of this trivial waystation of a world? How can you even let

yourself be seen in this place?" A pause as his eyes bored into mine. "What have you become,

Sira?"

I tried not to smile. "Well, I doubt I've become what you've so unflatteringly decided,

Cousin. Nor what you see. You forget, not all have your perception." Delicately, I reached into

the M'hir between us, not touching his shields but offering a different vision to his eyes—a face

whose features were smudged and hard to discern, the hint of an exotic gem on the forehead; a

body coated in a mist that confused. An illusion easy enough to offer drink- and drug-hazed

minds. A confusion of descriptions to confound any who saw more. No two who left the

Spacer's Haven ever agreed on the appearance of her witch.

A flicker of astonishment crossed his face, leaving behind a raised eyebrow. "I won it, you

see," I continued. "The previous owner, Sas'qaat, really wasn't as good at Stars and Comets as

it thought. And you're right. I stay here because it amuses me. Until now, I've missed the

shadowy edges of life, its variety and color."

"You've picked a hell of a way to start experiencing variety and color," Barac countered. A

loud scuffle, ended by heavy thuds as guardsmen moved in, served to underscore his comment.

Then with more characteristic dry humor: "Did you have to become a witch in order to hang

out in a bar?"

"It was easier than telling the truth."

Barac's lips twitched as though I'd unwittingly scored some point. "The truth, Cousin?

Which one?"

I considered him as I took another sip from my cup, politely refraining from exerting my

presence in the M'hir against his, then said, "Why, our truth, Cousin. That as Clan, you and I

can lay claim to a rare heritage of power, power used by our kind to live very well as parasites

among the unsuspecting species of the Trade Pact. Let me see. Is it two hundred or three

hundred Human worlds we grace with our presence? Or more?"

He couldn't help but glance around, checking if any being had overheard. I knew better.

Once bets were placed, an earthquake wouldn't rouse the Haven's clientele to self-preservation,

let alone curiosity. "I see. You sit here," he accused, eyes back to me, "and presume to judge

the rest of us."

"I presume nothing," I replied firmly, raising one hand to stop his outburst. "And nothing is

exactly what I want from the Clan. I've started a new life, Barac, one that allows me to use my

Talent without claim to a heritage I renounced a year ago." Purposeful movement from the

floor caught my eye, changing what I might have said next. "Actually, the Poculan version of

a user of power, a Ram'ad Witch, has an interesting and useful status off this planet as well—as

our friend Maka would testify." I nodded a regal acknowledgment to the approaching Drapsk.

I d been wrong about the earthquake. The parade of over thirty Drapsk was enough to dislodge

even the Haven's gamblers, if only temporarily.

"Oh, Most Mystic One," the Drapsk halted a cautious distance away, antennae aquiver.

"You have given us a tale to carry back to the Tribe tonight."

"Good business," I said offhandedly.

The creature began shifting from one foot to another and the other Drapsk followed suit in

unison. Beyond them, I saw smiles carefully hidden. "Business is what my ship-kin and I

would like to discuss with you, Mystic One."

"Captain Maka," I began. Indulging the alien night after night was becoming tiresome.

"How many times must I give you my answer? I am not interested in accompanying you to

your home system. As you've seen tonight, I'm needed here or my bumbling staff will

bankrupt me."

If body posture were to reflect a stubborn set of mind, Maka the Drapsk should have been

rigid by now. "We have searched two full cycles for a truly mystical personage such as

yourself," the being protested. "Do not doom us to failure before our Tribe. Just a short

voyage—amply rewarded and enjoyable."

The Drapsk sounded almost desperate—hardly a wise trading tactic. Why? "Not now," I

compromised. "I have matters that require my personal attention." True enough, given who

was sitting, rather puzzled, beside me. "Perhaps another time," I offered.

Foot-shifting ceased, replaced by mad feathery waves as the antennae of all the Drapsk

fluttered. I sensed no mind-to-mind contact, but I was convinced the beings were

communicating with one another. If it was some form of chemical signaling, I frankly

doubted its effectiveness in the maelstrom of odors from the various bodies and innumerable

smoke sticks surrounding us.

Maka came right up to the edge of the dais, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "Mystic

One, you are kindness itself not to remove all hope. But time is short if the happiest of

conjunctions is to occur this season for my ship-kin and me. Allow me to send my cargomaster

to you with gifts—the merest indication of the treasures you would receive from the grateful

Tribes of Drapskii."

I shook my head impatiently. I needed to talk to Barac, not these creatures. I had to find

out which part of my past was intruding into the present. "Send your gifts," I agreed loftily.

"I'll provue you my final answer in return. Good evening, Captain."

Then, regretfully, for I truly enjoyed watching this cross-section of the cosmos each night, I

put down my cup and brushed my fingers over Barac's sleeve. I pushed…

… and gained us the privacy of my rooftop garden.

The storm had ended. The first pair of Pocular's smallish moons shoved through openings

in the clouds, casting doubled shadows and distorting silhouettes. It was the part of the lunar

cycle when younger children were kept indoors after dark, old superstition; giving parents a

practical defense against nightmares. I took a deep breath of fresh, clean night air and

prepared to corfront my own.

"Now, Birac," I said. "Why are you here?"

"Glad it's stopped raining," he commented instead of answering, ashe paced around the

rooftop.

"Don't go close to the edge," I warned, following him to the near side with its view of the

shipcity's lights.

It was too dark to see his expression, but I detected a shade of patronage in his tone.

"Really, Sira. I thought you had a good head for heights. And this is hardly the Cloisters, set on

a mountaintop."

"No?" I said softly, taking my own advice and halting a good two paces away from the rail.

"You could be wrong about that, Cousin."

Barac's fingertips touched the finely wrought metal. Almost instantly he cursed and yanked

back his hand. "You've set protections on this building." He sounded surprised.

"Of course. Do you think for an instant I believed the Council would allow me to leave in

peace? I'd rather sleep at night, thank you. I felt Barac explore the unseen boundary with a

tendril or power, knowing what he would find. The Haven was a fortress against our kind. No

Clan could send thought or form into this place using the M'hir. And, I smiled to myself, if any

tried a more physical approach, they would be in for a similar disappointment.

I switched on the lighting, adequate to let me see his face yet night-soft random beams

played among the rain-soaked leaves and still-closed evening blossoms, sparkling like gems. I

wasn't the gardener, but I loved the exuberant life here—in its way as novel to me as the

hordes of beings beneath our feet. "You can test my protections, Cousin," I said dryly. "I assure

you they are adequate against—" I hesitated, and he pounced cheerfully.

"The rest of us? Don't worry, Sira. I've no intentions of testing them again. I, a humble sud,

remain glad you and I are on such good terms." His fine-boned face was open, freed of the

guarded tension it had borne in the tavern, revealing lines of stress and—was I wrong?—what

seemed to be the beginnings of hope. "But you asked me why I'm here. I've been chasing

rumors of the Silver Fox," Barac confessed willingly. "I was looking for you."

I sat and waved him to another of the lounge chairs. There were sufficient puddles to make

me glad Meragg had insisted on rain-resistant furnishings for this retreat of mine. I raised one

brow at the Clansman, refusing to be charmed. "I was never hidden—not to eyes like yours.

You waited a long time to visit, Barac. Why now?"

Barac's smiling face settled into a mask, his voice dropping to the sharp edge of a whisper.

"I did as you demanded, back then. You know that, Sira. I gave up my brother Kurr and the

search for his true murderer—the name you knew but wouldn't give me." He paused, his voice

gathering strength, yet oddly without bitterness. "But it wasn't enough for the Council,

Sira—that I stopped my awkward questions. This past month I was to be offered Choice by the

daughter of Xer sud Teerac," an impatient wave silenced my question. "A minor House. They

live on Asdershal 3. But it was a good match; assured of success. Then, just before we were to

meet, I was refused."

I winced. I'd known Barac remained unChosen from the moment I'd felt his presence in

the Haven—those of the Clan who were incomplete carried their overwhelming need in the

M'hir like a flag of warning. There would be pain as well as hurt pride in being refused. "It's not

the end of things, Barac," I said awkwardly, remembering what had been said to me time and

Julie E. Czerneda - Trade Pact 2 - Ties of Power

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