Part 43 (1/2)

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!