Beyond the Gate

Chapter 21

For two hours that morning the giants ran west along the coast as Gallen drove the wagon. When the road abruptly turned south, heading between two low hills, the giants stopped to rest. All four of them went down to a calm sea, as blue and sparkling as sapphires, and waded into waves up to their chests. For ten minutes they stooped and slowly drank their fill. Afterward, each of them bathed, then clambered back up the long sandy beach, looking refreshed, but as bedraggled as if they’d washed up in a flood.

Then the group headed south through the wooded hills. Tallea was healing nicely, and she and Orick took advantage of the opportunity to rest, while Ceravanne only sat gazing out the back of the wagon.

Maggie had time to wonder. According to Gallen, during the previous night his mantle had begun picking up memories in short bursts, so she put on her own mantle of technology and questioned Gallen about the problem.

“Gallen,” she whispered as the travelbeast charged down the dirt road, rounding a corner, “you said that the Inhuman is switching frequencies, trying to communicate with you. Did it do that only last night, or has it continued today?”

“It kept up until just past dawn,” Gallen said, “then it stopped.”

That was good news, at least. As she’d imagined earlier, the Inhuman’s ability to transmit seemed hampered in daylight, so it would be safer to travel by day. But she didn’t like the fact that the frequencies were changing at all. “Dammit, Gallen, the Word is more complex than I thought: at the very least, it is equipped with a transmitter so that it can communicate with the Inhuman.”

“But how much can it communicate?” Gallen said. “Is it just telling the Inhuman ‘I’m here,’ or does it send more information?”

Maggie considered. She’d thrown away the broken Word she’d had in camp yesterday. If she had it in hand, she might have been able to find its memory. Most likely, it would have been a small crystal, and by knowing its size, she would have been able to calculate exactly how much information was stored in the Word. But she knew that it couldn’t have stored much. If the Word’s memory was large at all, she’d have noticed its crystal earlier. Which meant that it wasn’t equipped with much memory-probably just enough to walk and move and recognize potential targets. It was probably not much smarter than an insect, and it might have had a transmitter in it just so that it could let the Inhuman know when to begin sending messages and whether they had been properly received.

But what bothered Maggie was that the Word didn’t need much memory to do some rather devastating things. With its transmitter, it might be able to download Gallen’s memories, his thoughts and ideas, and inform the Inhuman. It might be able to send direct transmissions to let the Inhuman know what he saw, what he smelled, what he heard.

In other words, without his knowledge or approbation, Gallen could very well lead them all into a trap, all the while believing himself to be fighting the Inhuman’s sway.

“Gallen, I don’t know how much the Word in your skull might be able to communicate with the Inhuman,” Maggie said hopefully. “But from what I’ve seen, the agents of the Inhuman don’t work in concert. Information doesn’t seem to be transferred directly between people. So that transmitter can’t be sending much.”

“But …” Gallen said, “I can tell that something worries you.”

Maggie leaned close to Gallen and a wave of dizziness passed over her. What she was about to say was so horrific, so undesirable, that she could hardly express her fears. “If the Word has a transmitter built into it, I’ve got to believe that it was put there for a good reason. I don’t know how much memory the Inhuman has. It couldn’t possibly hope to control a million or fifty million people all at once, so it downloads thoughts to you and lets you all act as if you were autonomous. But what if you’re not? What if the Inhuman could read your mind? What if it could take control of your body the way that Karthenor’s Guide took control of me? It wouldn’t take a lot of memory for the Inhuman to control a couple dozen people.”

“That can’t happen to me,” Gallen said. “My mantle is blocking its transmissions-at least during the daytime.”

Maggie looked meaningfully at Gallen and considered the problem. She didn’t want to speak so openly of such possibilities in front of Gallen and the others. She wanted to believe-she needed to believe-that the Inhuman had weaknesses, controllable limitations.

She whispered to her mantle, You have transmission capabilities. Can you help Gallen block the Inhuman’s signals?

Done, her mantle whispered. Static will be transmitted in a steady burst. Maggie understood that as long as she stayed within three meters of Gallen, the mantle would add an extra layer of protection.

Maggie silently asked her mantle to provide a schematic for the Word’s transmitter, and the mantle provided her with an image. The transmitter, it indicated, would most likely still be inside the metal body of the Word that had burrowed into Gallen’s skull. Because it was powered by a biogenic cell, the transmitter would have to be very weak, and would best communicate at ultralow frequencies, lower than those normally used by mantles. Maggie’s mantle was unable to read any such frequencies emanating from Gallen’s Word. And Maggie wondered if the Word was conserving energy. Perhaps it recognized the futility of trying to communicate during the day.

So Maggie sat next to Gallen, her mantle leaning up against his shoulder, and she rested as he drove.

During the late morning they began to pass others on the road-farmers with handcarts traveling to markets, old men with barrows carrying bundles of firewood, children herding pigs along the road.

Each time they passed such folk, the travelbeast was obliged to slow for safety’s sake. And on the occasions when they passed some small hamlet in which buildings made of stone seemed almost to stoop out into the streets, the beast was brought to a walk.

But once they passed such villages, the race would begin anew, and the giants ran. They startled herds of wild pigs sleeping under the oaks by the roadside, and often deer would bound away at their approach, crashing through the brush.

Thus in the early afternoon they topped a long grassy hill, and rested under the shade of an oak. The wooded valleys spread out wide below, thick with oak and alder. As far as they could see, the land looked barren of habitation.

With heavy hearts, three of the giants stopped, begging Ceravanne’s pardon for leaving. “You will have to go in the care of Fenorah from now on,” one young giant apologized, “though he’s not much good for anything but eating your stores.”

The giants were covered with sweat, but Ceravanne stood in the back of the wagon and leaned out, kissing each on the forehead. “Go with my blessing,” she said, “and know that I am grateful for your service.”

The travelbeast was winded, and it lowered its shaggy head and began tearing great clumps of grass from the ground. One of the giants took a bag of rotting pears from the back of the wagon and fed them to the beast, explaining that if it was to run all day, it would need something better than grass to eat.

Then the giants turned as if to walk back toward the sea, but they were slow to leave. And for her part, Maggie was sad to see them go. With them at her side, she’d felt safe, like a child in its father’s arms. One of them told a joke that Maggie could not hear, and the three laughed.

Gallen stood in the wagon and shouted in a strange tongue, “Doordra hinim s Duur!”

The three giants turned as one, raising their fists to the sky, and cried, “Doordra hinim!” Then they smiled, as if with renewed energy, and raced away.

Fenorah chuckled. “Stand tall in Duur! Indeed. Where did you learn that old battle cry? The Im giants abandoned the ancient tongue centuries ago.”

Gallen took a seat, but his eyes flashed, and he looked up into Fenorah’s face. “I learned it a few hours ago,” he said softly. “From a man who has been dead for five hundred years. He served beside the Im giants, and with them he hunted Derrits in the mountains of Duur until he swore fealty to the Swallow, and for her slew the Rodim.”

Gallen fell silent and his eyes lost their focus as he gazed inward. It was a magical thing for Maggie to see him as a boy one day, then suddenly turning into an old man the next, with too much pain and too much wisdom in his eyes.

Gallen began to sing, and though Maggie had heard him sing a few tavern songs, in the past she’d never thought him to have a fair voice. But now he sang in a voice that was both beautiful and startling, like the scent of a fresh rose filling a room in late autumn, and Maggie realized that it was a talent he’d learned from the Inhuman.

“In Indallian, the peaceful land,

among dark pines glowering,

the hilts were hollowed by Inhuman hands

in the days of the Swallow’s flowering.”

“Hold,” said Ceravanne from the back of the wagon, and she reached out and touched Gallen’s hand, silencing him. “Please, Gallen, do not sing that song. It is long forgotten by those who dwell here, and … it hurts too much. Perhaps if it came from the voice of another bard-but not you. You remind me too much of Belorian.”

“He has been dead for many centuries,” Gallen said. “I would have thought that time had brought you peace.”

“Not today,” Ceravanne whispered. “The memories of him seem fresh today, and the pain still hot. If you must tell your friends of Indallian in its days of glory, I beg that you do not sing of it around me.”

“What’s Indallian?” Orick asked.

Gallen waved toward the wild hills before them, golden with fields of grass, green with forests. “All of this is the land of Indallian-from the rough coast to the ruined halls of Ophat beside the city of Nigangi, and beyond, even to the deserts south of Moree where the Tekkar dwell. Long ago Ceravanne ruled the empire from the great city of Indallian with her consort the good King Belorian, until the Accord fell. Even today if I judge right by Fenorah’s account, their love is remembered as the stuff of legend.”

“It is spoken of,” Fenorah said beside the wagon, “though I must confess that I have not heard that song. And the Land of Indallian is no more, while its capital is spoken of with dread.”

“Belorian was more than a consort,” Ceravanne said as if to correct Gallen. “He was my lover, my husband in all but name-for by the laws of his people, we could not marry. Yet our love was fierce, before he died.”

“I do not understand,” Orick said to Ceravanne. “Your people can bring the dead back to life. Why is he not beside you now?”

“Because,” Ceravanne said, “a man is more than his flesh. He is also his memories, his experiences, his dreams and ambitions. And shortly after Belorian died in battle, the crystals that stored his memories were destroyed, and that is a far truer and more permanent death than the sloughing off of the flesh. We could rebuild his body, but we cannot remake the man.” She looked sharply at Gallen, as if to censure him for bringing up such a painful subject, then turned away.

In the uncomfortable silence that followed, Gallen urged the travel beast forward with some strange words foreign to the human tongue. The beast responded as if Gallen had spoken in its own language, and it rushed through the hills.

And as Maggie rode that day, she watched the land roll by. Often she would see ancient lichen-crusted stones tumbled in the grass as they passed some ruin, and twice they passed ancient fortresses that sprawled upon the hills, covered with moss, with oaks growing in the courtyard, their branches reaching over the stone walls like great hands.

As the day drew to its close, a brief squall blew over, and Fenorah, unwilling to risk that his travelbeast should injure itself by slipping in the mud, decided to set camp in an old fortress, in a great hall without doors or windows. So they brought the travel beast inside.

The walls were made of huge stones, a meter thick, carved so that various grooves fit together. Maggie suspected that the stone might not deter the Inhuman’s signal as well as a dozen feet of solid dirt, but she hoped it would serve nearly as well. She found the most secluded corner and directed Gallen to sit there and rest.

Dried horse dung left by the mounts of previous travelers served as ample fuel to set a small fire, and Fenorah brought out stores for dinner. They had not had a formal meal since early morning, and everyone was tired, and the poor giant was most weary of all. He curled into a corner while Maggie cooked dinner, and he fell asleep before it was done.

After a brief dinner Ceravanne withdrew from the group, going out a back hall that led to a tower. Outside, the rain was falling steadily, hissing as it struck the leaves of trees, and the heavy scent of moisture pervaded the room. It was chill and dreary.

“That song you began to sing today,” Orick said. “Will you sing it to us now?” And Maggie hoped that he would, for the sound of music would do her heart good.

Gallen sang in a low voice the same time he had begun earlier in the day, and Maggie was amazed at his voice, at the easy grace and power in it, as if he’d been born to sing.

He sang of Indallian, the riches and glory that made it the envy of all the world. He sang of the peaceful peoples drawn by the Swallow to form the great Accord, where each species had equal voices in the open counsels.

But then the Rodim came, a greedy race lured by tales of the rich deposits of emeralds and gold found in Indallian, and they ravaged whole villages, looted and burned the caravanserais.

The Swallow’s love, Belorian, was a strong man, and he sought to protect his people by arming them. But the Swallow urged him to counsel with the Rodim peacefully, to reconcile with them, bring them into the Accord.

Yet when Belorian met with the savage chieftains of the Rodim in their mountain camps, they slew him and put his body upon a pole, then danced through the night, proclaiming victory over the land of Indallian, and they sent their armies to Belorian’s throne at the city of Indallian, where they heaped contempt upon the dead by destroying the crystal that held Belorian’s memories.

Ceravanne was there, in her tower, and she witnessed the abuses committed upon her people, and upon her lord. Then the Rodim’s head chieftain ravished Ceravanne in Belorian’s bedchamber.

Because of the atrocities, the peaceful people of Indallian gathered together and slaughtered the armies of the Rodim without mercy, then fell upon the villages of their women without restraint and murdered their children, removing the Rodim from the face of the land.

Many went to the Swallow, asking her to have mercy before the final slaughter of the Rodim, hoping to spare some remnant of the race.

But Ceravanne turned away so that not one child remained.

And when the Rodim were all dead, the Swallow put a single red rose upon the grave of Belorian, and another upon the grave of the chieftain of the Rodim, to signify that she forgave him and his people, though she had not spared them. Then she proclaimed a year of mourning for the Rodim who lay dead, and for those who were forced to kill them.

None who beheld her could miss the horror on her face, nor deny her torment. And hours later the Swallow disappeared, and her crystal scepter was found in the mud of her courtyard. Many thought she had chosen to die rather than live without Belorian; while others imagined that she was so horrified by the genocide that was done in her behalf that she turned her back on mankind forever; but her friends swore that she would return when her grief had run its course, and so the legends said that someday she would come back to lead the Accord.

“Four hundred and eighty years ago the Swallow left rich Indallian,” Gallen intoned. “And still her heart knows no peace. Yet in songs and legends, people here remember the days of the Accord.”

Maggie looked toward the door that led to the tower, understanding why Ceravanne sought refuge in silence. Ceravanne had said earlier that her love, Belorian, was fresh on her mind, and Maggie felt the pain of knowing that she was surely losing Gallen to the Inhuman, just as Ceravanne had lost Belorian to the Rodim.

Gallen lay beside Maggie and stared into the fire, unable to sleep for a long time. Sometimes, he thought he could hear snatches of whispers, and he saw brief visions, tatters of memories that belonged to other people. But the song of the Inhuman was weak tonight, possibly because of the storm. Even as this thought struck Gallen, he heard the distant rumble of thunder, confirming his suppositions.

He got up quietly so as not to rouse Maggie, and he put some twigs on the fire.

“How many lives you recall?” Tallea whispered, letting the sound of her voice fill the night.

“Just the seven,” Gallen answered. Then to fill up the silence that followed, he said, “I wonder how many more the Inhuman has in store for me.”

“A hundred lives to be remembered,” Tallea said. “You fortunate, remember them slowly, over days. Should be easy.”

“Yes.” Gallen smiled wanly. “I’m fortunate.” A cold shiver of fright wriggled down his backbone. He went to his pack, dug around for a moment, then pulled out a thin film of translucent material and applied it to his face.

His face suddenly shone like blue starlight as he put on the mask of Fale, and he stood for a moment, his black robes draped over him, weapons bristling on his back and thighs. He recalled how the witnesses at his trial back home had imagined he was a sidhe when thus garbed, a magical being with malevolent intent, and now Gallen could indeed feel it. With his face gleaming in the dark like a ghost, there was little human left in him. He looked like a thing.

Gallen stood at the door, as if he would walk out into the night rain, and for a moment he wanted to do that, just walk away into the dark and the cleansing rain that was sweeping down in misty sheets.

Instead he went to a back corridor of the great hall. The floors were thick with dust and moss, old leaves, and the husks of pine nuts carried in by squirrels.

He stood for a moment, testing the air to see whether the Inhuman would try to send him more memories. But there was nothing. It seemed that for the time being, he was free.

Using his mantle’s night, vision, Gallen negotiated the passageways until he found some stairs curving up the wall of a tower. Muddy footprints showed that Ceravanne had been here recently, and though Gallen mistrusted her, he felt drawn to her.

He climbed the winding stairs for twenty meters, till he found a room that opened at the top. There, several arching windows were still intact; weathered stones surrounded casements that had long ago rotted into dust. Ceravanne stood beside one such window. Ivy grew in dust on the floor, so that she stood as if in a meadow, surrounded by foliage, staring out into the rain. Her back was to him, and she shivered.

Gallen went to her, stood for a moment. He could feel the heat of her body near his, and he inhaled her clean scent. He knew that it was only pheromones that drew him so vigorously, yet he found himself wishing to hold her, to comfort her.

“I hoped you would come,” she said, and she turned. With the light amplification provided by his mantle, he could see that she’d been crying, and she stared into his face, at the mask, and he wondered what she saw. A blue glowing phantom, with dark holes for eyes.

She took his hands, held them lightly, and studied his face. She was breathing heavily, and she said, “That song-I have to ask-from whom did you learn it?”

“From a minstrel named Tam, who lived here ages ago,” Gallen answered.

“But this man, did he remember me? He didn’t know the Swallow in person?”

“You were but newly gone when he composed the song,” Gallen said.

“And Belorian? Did he know Belorian?” Her voice was nearly hysterical, as if she hoped for some word of her long-dead lover.

“No,” Gallen whispered. “He never knew Belorian.”

Ceravanne gasped and began weeping, fell against Gallen’s chest. “Ah, I thought he had. I thought you remembered his face.” Then she sobbed from the core of her soul, and Gallen clumsily put his arms around her, tried to ease her pain.

“So many tears, for one long dead,” Gallen whispered.

Ceravanne looked up, stroked his chin. “You look much like him,” she said. “When we first met, I kissed you inappropriately. I guess I wanted you to love me. Being near you has been hard. Forgive me if I’ve offended you with my affection.”

Gallen licked his lips, stepped back. He’d been aware of Ceravanne, of her graceful movements, of the longing glances she sometimes gave him. He’d imagined that it was all a ploy, a sly attempt to manipulate him. And the Inhuman, with its clever tongue, whispered that this was true-another cruel attempt by the Tharrin to ensnare him. Gallen had never dreamed that Ceravanne could really have felt anything for him, and now he saw that he was but a shadow to her.

“I’m sorry.” He found himself unaccountably apologizing. “I didn’t know.”

She looked at him oddly, as if wondering if he told the truth. “Of course you couldn’t have known.” She turned away. “What of Maggie? Have your feelings for her changed?”

“Today, I learned of the most marvelous people, far to the south. The Yakrists, they are called, and they care for others more than they care for themselves. They love one another perfectly, and as I lived the life of a Yakrist, I came to understand how weak and imperfect my love for Maggie has been.”

“So your feelings for her are changed?”

“I will try to be more … understanding of her needs,” Gallen said. “Perhaps if I were Inhuman, I would love her more perfectly.”

Ceravanne nodded, obviously distraught, and Gallen realized that she had hoped he would answer differently, that he would say he was abandoning Maggie.

“And you believe that by enslaving others, the Inhuman is showing that kind of great love?”

“Ceravanne,” Gallen whispered. “I think there is something you should know. The Inhuman is not completely wrong, here. It only wants us to understand one another, to help one another.”

There was a cruel laughing, something that Gallen could almost not imagine hearing from Ceravanne’s throat. “Don’t tell me that,” she whispered fiercely. “I’ve seen what the dronon are up to. They care nothing for us, nothing for each other. They love only their Golden Queen, and they serve her ruthlessly.”

“And yet they want peace,” Gallen said. “They want us to unite with them, and they’re offering … so much in return.”

“What are they offering?”

“Life. Rebirth,” Gallen said. “They’re going to open restrictions on giving rebirth to nonhumans. And anyone can be reborn into the body of their choice, experience life as they desire.

“And peace!” Gallen continued. “In the past, the people of Babel have been slaughtered in ruthless wars, with everyone trying to conquer their neighbors. But among the hosts of the Inhuman, everyone will live fuller lives. I know what it is to be a Yakrist, and now that I know them, I could never harm one of them. That is what the Inhuman offers, a knowledge of our own brotherhood. And the Dronon will take care of the people of Babel.”

“Gallen,” Ceravanne said, looking at him as if he were mad, and a knife of fear stabbed him, for Gallen wondered if he was mad. “The dronon don’t care for us,” she said reasonably. “You can’t imagine that they do. When their own infants are sick or crippled, they grind them up to fertilize their fields. You’re trying to make sense, but the dronon are using your own compassion against you. And it’s damned unfair of them to ask you to be compassionate, when they lack that capacity themselves. They don’t want to free us from our wars and infighting, they want to create nations of slaves with them as our masters. All of the technologies they offer to benefit mankind are technologies we’ve already developed. If they succeed in taking over, just watch them. They’ll give rebirth only to those who serve them best. And they want you to feel good about it.”

Gallen listened to her words carefully, tried to hold on to them, but somehow their meaning evaded him. I used to think like she does, Gallen realized. But when? It seemed to him that his fears of the dronon had stemmed from a dream-a long time ago. Something about Maggie, wearing a Guide, while trapped in a dronon fortress. But just at the moment, he couldn’t recall. Instead, a more pressing argument came to mind. “You are no more human than a dronon is,” Gallen said, brightening. “Why should you rule us?”

“Because humans created me for that purpose,” Ceravanne countered. “And I crave to serve them. But unlike the dronon, I never force my rule on anyone. If humans desire to elect a human leader, that is their option. But the dronon will not let you serve as equals. They will never accept human leaders.”

There was a long pause, and Gallen listened to her words but could not understand how any sane person could arrive at her conclusion. He finally managed, “The Dronon will accept us. Maggie and I, we are the leaders of the Sixth Swarm. We could take our rightful place, show them how to live together with us in harmony!”

“But humans don’t want to live with them!” Ceravanne said.

“Agreed, most of them don’t,” Gallen whispered, and there was an unusual intensity in his voice. He felt almost as if his mouth moved of its own accord, and he merely listened to the words it said. “But what of the people of Babel? They are not humans. Can’t you see how your policies afflict them? They have no sense of purpose, so few social bonds across tribes. They have no law, no access to technology. You created them, then abandoned them. They need what humans and the dronon have!”

“Gallen, I was not formed to be a judge of the peoples of Babel. I can’t take care of them, any more than the dronon could. I don’t understand all of their needs, all of their hopes. I don’t even force my judgments on humans.

“But let me ask you this, Gallen. Is it our obligation to govern other peoples, or to find a purpose in life for them, or to be their friends?” Ceravanne asked, and her voice was desperate. “You are human, from a world not unlike Tremonthin: who ever tried to give you a purpose in life? Who ever protected you? Can’t you see-all of these things that you say the humans owe the people of Babel, in your own country, you don’t even force them on your own children. It would be wicked to do so. If these people in Babel want law, then they have to figure out how to create and enforce their own laws. They weren’t designed to live by human standards, and I can’t take the right to govern themselves away from them.”

“But you deny them life …” Gallen objected, angry that she would not or could not see his point.

“And we deny most of our own people more than one life,” Ceravanne said. “Even the best of us often only get our lives extended by a few decades.”

“But the humans of Tremonthin created these people,” Gallen objected. “You owe them!”

“Since we created them, doesn’t it stand to reason that they owe us for the blessing of life?” Ceravanne countered. “Think of it. Do we owe them more than we owe our own children? Even for our own children, we make no guarantees. We make no promises of love or acceptance or wealth. No society can promise all of these things to its individuals. Happiness comes as a reward for a life well lived. It cannot be an entitlement.”

“But …”

“There are no buts,” Ceravanne said. “Gallen, all of your thoughts, all of those confused feelings, those are just the Inhuman talking. Those notions don’t make any sense when you look at them closely. But the dronon want you to believe them. The dronon want you to believe that their Golden Queen will take care of us. But you’ve seen what the dronon offer on other worlds. They want to feed off us, as parasites. Gallen, the dronon showed you the lives of a few folks. They told you a story, providing the sights, the smells, the emotions. They told you a lie.

“But more importantly, I want you to realize that you are spouting dangerous dogma that doesn’t necessarily follow from the information you’ve been given. Think about it, and you’ll know I’m right. The dronon are teaching you on a subconscious level, altering your thought patterns. The memories they feed you only serve to cover the deeper alterations, and to make you think that you changed your mind on your own.”

Gallen was stunned. She had all the answers, all waiting in her hand like needles to prod him with. It seemed obvious that she had argued against the Inhuman before. He felt confused, and a buzzing sounded in his ears, sounded so loudly that he had a hard time thinking. He wanted to speak against her, but he could not think what to say next. The room seemed to be spinning, and Gallen found himself wanting to take Ceravanne by the throat, shake some sense into her. For the moment he seemed certain of only one thing: she was his enemy.

He grabbed her neck and pushed her against the wall. “Liar! Deceitful little vixen!” he said, and the room spun mightily so that he wondered if he could even stand. In his mind, her presence registered only as some hateful creature, a woman with long skeletal hands, groping for him.

Ceravanne hit the stone wall and slid down, her mouth open as if she would cry out, her eyes wide with fear, and Gallen knew that if she spoke again, he would have to silence her. Lightning struck outside-once, twice, a third time.

But the Tharrin only sat heavily in the ivy leaves. For a long moment, she only breathed, and Gallen’s anger began to pass. The room quit spinning, and Gallen’s mantle whispered, Seek shelter below, next to Maggie, quickly! And suddenly Gallen knew that the Inhuman had been communicating with him, trying to download its arguments directly into his mind.

Gallen stood gazing down at Ceravanne. “Don’t hurt me,” she pleaded, and she folded her arms, sat gazing up at him, a helpless child.

Gallen found that his sword had unaccountably appeared in his hand. Some time in the past minute, he had drawn it. And he’d been prepared to kill her, without thinking.

He shoved it back into his scabbard, and he wanted to run then, wanted to rush down the stairs and hide in the woods for what he’d almost done. He felt terribly embarrassed.

“Forgive me,” he whispered, white shock registering in his brain only as numbness. “The Inhuman can be … subtle.”

“You’re forgiven,” Ceravanne said with a tiny nod. She reached up her thin hand, so that he could help her up.

He took it, pulled her to a standing position. His heart was hammering with fear, and something else … The air in the room was moist and closed, and Ceravanne’s scent was thick. She was trembling, frightened, and he wanted to ease her mind. So he kissed her hand, looking into her eyes. She was small and pale, like a porcelain figure. Her hand, when he kissed it, tasted sweet. He’d almost forgotten how sweet the taste of a Tharrin could be.

Ceravanne reached up, and she was shaking, leaning against him. Her whole body trembled. She gazed deeply into his eyes. “You see,” she whispered desperately, “that I was right when I told you that I needed your heart. If you do not give it to me, the Inhuman will take it. Gallen, give me your heart!”

She kissed his chin experimentally, then brushed her lips against his. A burning passion rose in him, and Gallen kissed her full on the lips, pulling her close. She drew tight against him, her flesh folding into his like a lover’s, her arms embracing him. All thought retreated, and for one moment, there was only that passionate kiss blossoming like a field of wild poppies in his mind. Every nerve in his body tingled, her touch was lightning, and she groaned, tried to pull him to the floor there among the ivy.

Desperately, he pushed her away. “No!” Gallen cried. “I am married to Maggie!”

And he fled across the room from her, stood by the doorway. Ceravanne was on her knees now, breathing heavily, gazing at him, stunned. “No man has ever rejected me,” she said, hurt in her voice.

He turned for the door, and she said, “If it is Maggie you want, then be faithful to her, Gallen-remain as faithful to her in Moree as you have been tonight.”

Gallen hurried down the stairway, almost running. When he reached the bottom he found the fire still going. Tallea was hunched over it, putting in some more dry dung. Everyone else had gone to sleep, but Gallen stayed awake for the rest of the night while the others rested. He stared off into the rain, letting the full powers of his mantle keep watch while he remained on guard duty.

And through the night, ghosts came, the memories of people long dead, and they took him on journeys he could not sleep through and could not hope to escape. He felt like a child on a sandy beach, with water rushing in upon him with tremendous force, and with each crashing wave, the sand beneath him would shift, so that he felt as if something essential were being dragged away.

It did not matter where he stood in that little room. It did not matter that his mantle tried to block the signals. The Inhuman was overpowering him moment by moment, so that sometimes while the others slept, Gallen sobbed or cried out softly.

Long before morning, Gallen woke the others, and they headed south.

* * *