Kinsman's Oath Page 8

  Too close. His mind was as scarred as his body, bearing the brands of manipulation by telepaths of great skill and no scruples. She withdrew halfway, slipping free gently so as not to further damage his mind in her passing. Only then was she able to see what Ronan remembered.

  The images passed swiftly, disordered and jarring as in a nightmare. Visions of felinoid shaauri standing over him, twice giants to the boy he had been, with their pointed teeth and jutting, tattooed claws. Hands reaching. Growls and squeaks and words he could not understand. Terror.

  Then a moment of gentleness, unexpected. A soft humming trill, and a face less fearsome very close to his. But the tenderness did not last. For then he was older, his sense of self that of an adolescent. Shaauri were there again, not as tall, their fur unstriped red. Youngsters. They crowded on Ronan like a pod of orcas. Their voices were high with mockery.

  Ne'lin, they cried. Hu-man.

  They came one at a time, but they did not leave him until he lay on the ground, his blood spotting the tree needles that carpeted the ground in the wood. His muscles ached with countless bruises. He rose to his feet, weeping, and found his way home.

  It happened again when he ventured too far from the Kalevi settlement. This time he fought. They beat him down. He grew older. Nothing changed.

  Another shaauri face. But this one was unlike all the others. The fur, pale sienna with age, was deeply barred with faded stripes. Peace lay in the slanted eyes. The shaaurin held out his hand, and the boy took it.

  The pain didn't stop, but something altered. Those who came to beat him hesitated. Some retreated, and others showed the marks of wounds. The boy's terror had slipped behind a barrier they could not penetrate even when they hurt him.

  It was victory, of a sort. Cynara searched for emotions of joy, pleasure, even contentment. The last she found in rare memories, those that usually included the old shaaurin. But never true happiness. Never the comfort of belonging, even when other humans came and he lay with females of his own kind.

  Cynara found herself caught on those memories as if they were traps deliberately set. The images were focused yet languorous, no longer nightmare but ecstatic dream. Ronan's dream.

  It was his first time. For years he had seen shaauri adolescents leave for Walkabout, one by one, free to mate as they chose until the time of Selection. Only he had been forbidden such release. At the age of sixteen, as humans reckoned it, his thoughts had been filled with need and confused yearning.

  Then they had sent for the Kinswoman. She had shown him such wonders… Cynara tried to remain apart from the memory, but Ronan's emotions were too powerful. Gratitude, elation, release, the fragile sensation of having come home at last.

  When it was over, he reached for his lover, his mate, believing with all his heart that she would stay. After what they had shared, how could she do otherwise?

  But the face turned toward him was cold, and in it he read the indifference of a tedious duty completed. With that look she wounded him, not in flesh that would heal but in his very soul.

  That had been the first of the annual visits. Each time a new Kinswoman arrived to relieve a young man's hungers. No companionship. No love, except when memory touched the old shaaurin, and sometimes other faces that did not turn from him in scorn and loathing.

  Cynara tried to conceal her pity, the sorrow for Ronan that he might sense if she projected too strongly. As if aroused by her efforts, Ronan claimed her again—not with old memories, but as he was now, fully aware of her as she was of him.

  Emotions washed over her, barely contained. She felt Ronan's desire—attraction, yearning, physical hunger, everything that he had experienced with those other women, but a thousand times more potent.

  In his mind he had stripped her naked, and they lay in that forest he remembered from childhood, bodies entangled. Her legs were wrapped around his hips, and he was moving inside her with deep, rhythmic thrusts. She was no longer a captain or a D'Accorso or even a woman of Dharma, but some unrecognizable creature heedless and half mad with lust…

  Cynara snapped the link far too swiftly, breaking the protocols meant to protect both telepath and subject. It was like lopping off one of her arms. She slumped over the table, breathing hard, Ronan's scarred hands filling her vision.

  She pushed up on her elbows. Ronan's gaze passed through her, unseeing.

  "Are you all right?"

  He blinked and focused. "Is it finished?"

  Poseidon. Had it been illusion, her sense that he had been conscious of her presence within his mind? Her entire body felt like a live current, thrumming with Ronan's desire and the memory of his phantom lovemaking.

  "Yes." Her throat was too dry for speech. She got up and filled a glass of water from the dispenser, leaning heavily on the counter. After a moment she poured another glass and set it before Ronan.

  He touched the glass with his fingertip. "Was it difficult?"

  Difficult. She hadn't attempted anything like this since Tyr's death had tripled the acuity of her insignificant talents. She'd always feared that such concentrated use of them would summon Tyr from his restless sleep, compel him to reclaim the life she'd unwillingly stolen.

  For she knew he still lived within her. She drew upon his confidence and absolute belief in his own competence and strength. She had no right to prevent him from reclaiming what should be his, yet she avoided any risk that might upset the precarious balance.

  Tyr the hero. Tyr the beloved of all Dharma. Tyr the bold, brilliant captain, her childhood idol.

  I gave everything to you, Tyr whispered. Do not deny me, Cynara. Let me live…

  "Cynara?"

  She winced at the concern in Ronan's voice. "No," she said. "It wasn't difficult."

  "Did you discover what you needed?"

  Cynara gathered all the images she had collected and realized how little she had seen of his life. Yet it was enough. No man could suffer so and be anything but a fugitive, desperate to rejoin his own kind and find acceptance.

  Ronan desired her because she was the first human female to treat him with dignity and friendship, and because his needs had been so inadequately met. It was not her job to heal his wounds with her body or her soul.

  Why, then, could she not rid her mind of his erotic dreaming? She forced herself to meet his eyes. The lust she expected was banked, but she could never be unaware of it again.

  "Yes," she said. "I believe you are here to rejoin humanity, and to help us."

  He closed his eyes. "My thanks."

  For what? For having pushed her way into his mind like a rapist, stealing what he held most private?

  "Did you ever… sense my presence?"

  . The answer was plain when he opened his eyes. "For a moment," he admitted.

  "It may be—" Poseidon, how could she find the nerve to raise his hopes? If he'd been a child when they crippled his telepathic abilities, he wouldn't miss them. He might be far better off without them.

  She gulped down the rest of the water and set down the glass. "It may be possible to restore something of your telepathy. With the right experts, of course. If… if you want to try."

  He did not answer but rose, leaving his glass untouched, and paced across the galley to the bulkhead, never quite turning his back to her.

  "What is it like, to walk in another mind?"

  How could she answer? She'd touched so few, and only two deep enough to brand her: Tyr, and now Ronan.

  "It's theoretically different for everyone. There are many kinds of gifts. You'll be able to talk to other telepaths on Dharma. I'll arrange it."

  "You don't wish to go back."

  "To Dharma? My family is there—"

  "But not your heart."

  He could have drawn such a conclusion from the clues she'd given him, but the observation was too acute for comfort. "Are you sure you aren't still a telepath?" she asked lightly.

  "I recognize your loneliness."

  "I don't have time to be lonely."
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br />   He faced her, hands folded at his back. "Is Kord your mate?"

  Cynara's boots sealed to the deck, nearly tripping her. "Kord is my weapons specialist, and my friend. You remember our discussion of human friendship."

  "You risk your life to save his, though you are his First."

  "You're willing to risk your life for us—or is that only because you've grown up believing you have no worth to lose?"

  She stopped, appalled at her own cruelty. What shocked her far more was the faint, self-mocking smile on Ronan's face. He had learned to wield human expressions with remarkable skill in a very short time.

  "I will risk my life for Cynara D'Accorso," he said, taking a step toward her. "As you would risk much to save this ship. Your Pegasus is not like other human vessels. Why was it in shaauri space, outrunning a striker as if it were a ba'laik'iri's plaything?"

  His sudden change of topic left her mute. If she had not just probed his mind, she would have suspected his motives in asking. Janek would do more than suspect.

  "Your curiosity is natural," she said, "but it isn't a subject I'm prepared to discuss."

  A shadow darkened his eyes. "You do not trust me as a friend. Do you need to enter my mind again?"

  "It is not a matter of trust or friendship. You are still a stranger—"

  "I do not wish to be." He stood only a meter away, close enough for the heat of his body to penetrate her shipsuit. He lifted his hand, palm up. "Cynara—"

  "Captain D'Accorso," Lizbet's voice announced over the intercom. "We are approaching Bifrost."

  "Acknowledged." Cynara strode briskly for the door. Now was the time to decide—to trust or not to trust, to accept or reject Ronan as he had been rejected so many times before.

  "It's time to suit up," she said. "Are you coming?"

  He smiled, teeth and all.

  Snow blew onto Ronan's faceplate and was swept away again by the ferocious, icy winds of Bifrost. He had seen this storm's like before, high in the mountains of Semakka. But then he had been alone with Sihvaaro, a student in the care of his elder. Here his companion was one he must protect with his life.

  Cynara tapped her suit's comlink, her face barely visible through the visor. "I'm picking up the signal from the Pontos, south-southeast. Lizbet reports that the terrain between here and the approximate landing site is broken and treacherous, and the storm is getting worse."

  She glanced behind in the direction of the Thalassa, already lost in the blizzard. Lizbet Montague and Healer Zheng were secure inside; Zheng would ordinarily have accompanied them, but she had declared that she was nearly immobile under such conditions and would be far more hindrance than assistance. It was up to Ronan and Cynara to find Kord and return him to the shuttle.

  An Montague had set the Thalassa down at the only suitable location near Kord's landing site, a half-buried apron built by the long-departed colonists. Crumbled walls of buildings framed two sides, blocking the worst of the wind.

  Ronan had observed the desolation with a strange discomfort, remembering what Adumbe had said about the fate befalling colonies cut off from vital supplies. Ronan had no part in the shaauri blockade; he had been as much at shaauri mercy as the humans who required trade to survive.

  But shaauri would not have been so mad as to settle a world with such an extreme elliptical orbit. Bifrost had long, scorching summers and equally endless winters, and it was in the second season they now found themselves.

  Human madness. But Cynara was not mad. Janek must have thought her so when she permitted Ronan to accompany her in search of Kord. She had put her life into his hands because she had sifted his thoughts and memories.

  He did not know what she had seen. Only at the end had he felt her and recognized what it must be like to share minds as Kinsmen did, whole and complete. He had caught a glimpse of the woman Cynara permitted few to see.

  Loneliness. The weight of responsibility for something beyond her crew, the unspoken fear of failure, the doubt of her very self.

  And desire. Craving touch and rejecting it. Turning him away for reasons he could not begin to grasp.

  She had hurt him with her abrupt withdrawal, raked open invisible scars he had forgotten. And then she had offered the return of the abilities he had lost, abilities like those of the Kinsmen who despised him. Kinsmen who joined, mind to mind, with their mates.

  To be bound so to Cynara, one with her, belonging…

  Cynara shivered, though her environmental suit held the cold at bay. Ronan pressed against her. "What concerns you?" he asked through the intercom.

  "Imagining what it must have been like to live here," she said, and dismissed the thought with a shrug. "Let's move out."

  She took the lead, following the Pontos's transponder signal as she picked her way over obstacles meters deep in snow. She was strong, sure and efficient in her movements, but even the helmet's visual enhancers could not make the going easy. Ronan knew she would be shamed if he preceded her. Her pride was that of a First even when she made light of her rank, and among humans a First always led, even into danger.

  Ronan stayed at her heels, straining to separate distinct elements out of the chaos of sound. It was all lost in the whining of the wind. Yet his senses remained alert, warning him that something was wrong.

  "You are certain that no humans have remained here?" he asked.

  "In this?" Her voice came back to him over the intercom leached of its natural music, but not of its irony.

  Ronan searched the barren landscape. "Cynara—"

  A hulking shape stepped in front of her, grotesquely furred in a motley pattern of gray and white. Ronan plunged through the snow to knock Cynara aside. He crouched above her and snatched at his hip for the sidearm she had given him.

  Not soon enough. The shape raised one upper limb, and Ronan made out a hand with several thick fingers, aiming a rifle at the center of his faceplate.

  The fur was not part of this being, but merely a covering. The face was so shrouded as to be invisible.

  "What is it?" Cynara whispered.

  Briefly Ronan remembered that personal contact was necessary for her telepathic senses to function properly. "I can't smell him," he said. "He must be human. I will disarm him."

  "No." She pushed onto her knees. The rifle swung toward her. Ronan moved to intercept it. The muzzle touched his suit just below the helmet seal. At such close range, the beam could penetrate and kill.

  "Do what I do," Cynara said. She put her hands above her head. Against his better judgment, Ronan did the same. The man in furs snatched their sidearms and shoved the weapons among the layers of his covering. He gestured east with his rifle, commanding them to move ahead of him. Ronan kept himself between Cynara and their captor, guiding her along the path the man had already made.

  The mouth of a cave opened up before them, rimmed with a jagged fringe of icicles. The fur-clad man pushed them through a door in a wall constructed of broken machinery and paneling.

  Inside, the cave was a surprisingly orderly collection of materials undoubtedly scavenged from the colony's remains. Furs were heaped over a cot and broken chairs. A small fire burned at the rear of the cavern, dancing in the draft from some unseen flue.

  The man urged them toward the back and made clear that they were to sit or kneel. Only when they had complied did he lower his weapon and begin to unwind the wrappings around his head.

  His face was human, clad with its own matted facial fur, and aged with tribulation. The eyes were nearly lost in wrinkles and the rime of frost on lashes and brows. He tugged off his gloves one at a time, never letting go of the rifle.

  "Take off your helmets," he commanded.

  Cynara obeyed, her hands steady on the seals. Ronan did the same. It took him a moment to adjust to the bitter cold, and he knew that Cynara must be in great discomfort. He edged closer to her.

  The man's eyes widened, showing faded brown. "Been so long," he croaked. "So long."

  "Who are you?" Cynara asked. "W
hy have you brought us here?"

  He pulled up one of the chairs and sat down, leaning the rifle against his knee. "How did you get to Bifrost?"

  "I am Cynara D'Accorso, captain of the Alliance ship Pegasus. This is my… crewman, Ronan. We came looking for a fellow crewmember forced to land on this world."

  "The ship," the man said. He scratched under the collar of his fur coat and breathed out a cloud of mist. "I saw it. Thought it crashed. Was going to look for stuff I could use."

  "We have no quarrel with you, Ser—"

  "Gunter. Sam Gunter." He closed his eyes. "So long."

  "Ser Gunter, our shipmate may be injured and in need of immediate assistance. We mean you no harm. Once we have retrieved him, we will leave."

  "Leave?" Gunter laughed hoarsely, and Ronan heard an edge of madness in it. This one was truly ne'lin as humans understood the concept. Ronan prepared to fight at a moment's notice, adjusting his balance to compensate for the weight of the suit.

  "Yes," Gunter said slowly. 'Take your friends with you. But I need something first."

  Ronan gathered his muscles. Cynara held very still. "What do you want?" she asked.

  'That." He jerked his chin toward Ronan. "That suit. It should fit me. You give me that suit, and you can go."

  "That will not be possible," Cynara said. "But when we're done, we'll be happy to take you with us to the Nine Worlds."

  "You leave. I stay, with the suit."

  "You're welcome to any supplies we have on the Pegasus—"

  He jumped up and grabbed the rifle. "No bargaining. Suit now, you go. No suit—" He took aim at Cynara. "You die, I take both suits. Your choice."

  "Ronan can't survive this cold—"

  Ronan stood, his hands away from his body. "I will give you the suit."

  "Ronan—" Cynara began, scooting around on her knees.

  "Hold it," Gunter snapped. "Move, I shoot."

  Ronan met her gaze, and she read the stubborn determination in his eyes. He removed his pack, his belt and harness, letting them fall to his feet. Then he unfastened the e-suit, working from the neck down. Cynara could almost feel the cold seep through the double-thick shipsuit he wore beneath. The boots came last, with their element-proof linings and heavy soles. He kicked the e-suit aside.