Heritage and Exile (39 page)

It was Kadarin who answered, “Hell yes! If I know the Terrans!”

Marjorie checked Rafe's mittened hands. “Warm enough?” He pulled away indignantly, and she admonished, “Don't be silly! Shivering uses up too much energy; you have to be able to concentrate!” I was pleased at her grasp of this. My own chill was mental, not physical. I placed Beltran at a little distance from the circle. I knew it was a bitter pill to swallow, that the twelve-year-old Rafe could be part of this and he could not, and I was intensely sorry for him, but the first necessity of matrix work was to know and accept for all time your own limitations. If he couldn't, he had no business within a mile of the circle.

There was really no need for a physical circle, but I drew us close enough that the magnetic energy of our bodies would overlap and reinforce the growing bond.

I knew this was folly, a partly trained Keeper, a partly trained psi monitor . . . an illegal, unmonitored matrix . . . and yet I thought of the pioneers in the early days of our world, first taming the matrices. Terran colonists? Kadarin thought so. Before the towers rose, before their use was guarded by ritual and superstition. And it was given to us to retrace their steps!

I separated hilt and blade, taking out the matrix. It was not yet activated, but at its touch the old scar on my palm contracted with a stab of pain. Marjorie moved with quiet sureness into the center of the circle. She stood facing me, laying one hand on the blue stone . . .
a vortex seeking to draw me into its depths, a maelstrom
. . . . I shut my eyes, reaching out for contact with Marjorie, steadying myself as I made contact with her cool silken strength. I felt Thyra drop into place, then Kadarin; the sense of an almost-unendurable burden lessened with his strength, as if he shifted a great weight onto his shoulders. Rafe dropped in like some small furry thing nestling against us.

I had the curious sense that power was flowing
up
from the stone and into the circle. It felt like being hooked up to a powerful battery, vibrating in us all, body and brain. That was wrong, that was very wrong. It was curiously invigorating, but I knew we must not succumb to it even for a moment. With relief I felt Marjorie seize control and with a determined effort direct the stream of force, focusing it through her, outward.

For a moment she stood bathed in flickering, transparent flames, then for an instant she took on the semblance of a woman . . .
golden, chained, kneeling, as the forge-folk depicted their goddess
. . . . I knew this was an illusion, but it seemed that Marjorie, or the great flickering fire-form which seemed to loom around and over and through her, reached out, seized the helicopter's rotors and spun them as a child spins a pin-wheel. With my physical ears I heard the humming sound as they began to turn, slowly at first under the controlling force, then winding to a swift spinning snarl, a drone, a shriek that caught the air currents. Slowly, slowly, the great machine lifted, hovering lightly a foot or so above the ground.

Hold it there!
I was directing the power outward as Marjorie formed and shaped it; I could feel all the others pressed tightly against me, though physically none of us were touching. As I trembled, feeling the vast outflow of that linked conjoined power, I saw in a series of wild flashes the great form of fire I had seen before, Marjorie and not Marjorie, a raw stream of force, a naked woman, sky-tall with tossing hair, each separate lock a streamer of fire . . . I felt a curious rage surging up and through me.
Take the helicopter, hanging there useless a few inches high, hurl it into the sky, high, high, fling it down like a missile against the towers of Castle Aldaran, burning, smashing, exploding the walls like sand, hurling a rain of fire into the valley, showering fires on Caer Donn, laying the Terran base waste
. . . . I struggled with these images of fire and destruction, as a rider struggles with the bit of a hard-mouthed horse.
Too strong, too strong.
I smelled musk, a wild beast prowled the jungle of my impulses, rage, lust, a constellation of wild emotions . . . a small skittering animal bolting up a tree in terror . . . the shriek of the rotor blades, a scream, a deafening roar. . . .

Slowly the noise lessened to a whine, a drone, a faint whir, silence. The copter stood vibrating faintly, motionless. Marjorie, still flickering with faint glimmers of invisible fire, stood calm, smiling absently. I felt her reach out and break the rapport, the others slipping away one by one until we stood alone, locked together. She withdrew her hand from the matrix and I stood cold and alone, struggling against spasms of lust, raging violence spinning in my brain, out of control, my heart racing, the blood pounding in my head, vision blurred. . . .

Beltran touched me lightly on the shoulder; I felt the tumult subside and with a shudder of pain managed to withdraw my consciousness. I covered the matrix quickly and drew my aching hand over my forehead. It came away dripping.

“Zandru's hells!” I whispered. Never, not in three years at Arilinn, had I even guessed such power. Kadarin, looking at the helicopter thoughtfully, said, “We could have done anything with it.”

“Except maybe controlled it.”

“But the power is
there,
when we do learn to control it,” Beltran said. “A spaceship. Anything.”

Rafe touched Marjorie's wrist, very lightly. “For a minute I thought you were on fire. Was that real, Lew?”

I wasn't sure if this was simply an illusion, the way generations upon generations of the forge-folk had envisioned their goddess, the power which brought metal from the deeps of the earth to their fires and forges. Or was this some objective force from that strange otherworld to which the telepath goes when he steps out of his physical body? I said, “I don't know, Rafe. How did it seem, Marjorie?”

She said, “I saw the fire. I even felt it, a little, but it didn't burn me. But I
did
feel that if I lost control, even for an instant, it would burn up inside and . . . and take over, so that I
was
the fire and could leap down and . . . and destroy. I'm not saying this very well. . . .”

Then it was not only me. She too had felt the weapon-rage, the lust for destruction. I was still struggling with their physical aftereffects, the weak trembling of adrenalin expended. If these emotions had actually arisen from within
me,
I was not fit for this work. Yet, searching within myself, with the discipline of the tower-trained, I found no trace of such emotion within me now.

This disquieted me. If my own hidden emotions—anger I did not acknowledge, repressed desire for one of the women, hidden hostility toward one of the others—had been wrested out of my mind to consume me, then it was a sign I had lost, under stress, my tower-imposed discipline. But those emotions, being mine, I could control. If they were not mine, but had come from elsewhere to fasten upon us, we were all in danger.

I said, “I'm more disturbed than ever about this matrix. The power's there, yes. But it's been used as a weapon. . . .”

“And it wants to destroy,” Rafe said unexpectedly, “like the sword in the fairy tale; when you drew it, it would never go back into the scabbard until it had had its drink of blood.”

I said soberly, “A lot of those old fairy tales were based on garbled memories of the Ages of Chaos. Maybe Rafe's right and it
does
want blood and destruction.”

Thyra, her eyes brooding, asked, “Don't all men, just a little? History tells us they do. Darkovans and Terrans too.”

Kadarin laughed. “You were brought up in the Comyn, Lew, so I'll forgive you for being superstitious.” He put his arm around my shoulders in a warm hug. “I have more faith in the human mind than in forge-folk superstitions.” We were still linked; again I felt the strength that lifted a great weight from my shoulders. I let myself lean against him. He was probably right. My mind had been filled from childhood with these old gods and powers. The science of matrix mechanics had been formulated to get rid of that. I was a skilled technician; why was I letting imagination run away with me?

Kadarin said, “Try again. Now that we know we
can
control it, it's all a matter of learning how.”

“It's always up to the Keeper to decide that,” I said. It troubled me that Marjorie still deferred to me. It was natural enough, for I had trained her, but she must learn that the initiative was hers, to lead, not follow.

She stretched her hand to me, setting up the primary line of force. One by one she brought us into the circle, each of us dropping into his appointed place as if we were scouts on a battlefield. This time I felt her touch Beltran, too, and
place
him so that he could maintain rapport just outside the circle. This time the force was easier to carry . . .
chained fire, electricity firmly stored in a battery, a firmly bridled racehorse
. . . . I saw the fire leap up around Marjorie, but this time I could see through it. It wasn't real, just a way of visualizing a force with no physical reality.

We stood linked, holding the pulsing power suspended.
If the Terrans will not give us what we need and deserve, we can force them to it, we need not fear their bombs nor their blasters. Do they think we are barbarians armed with swords and pitchforks?

Clearly now, as the form of fire built up, I saw a woman, a sky-tall goddess clothed in flame, restlessly reaching to strike.

. . .
fire raining on Caer Donn, smashing the city into rubble, starships falling like comets out of the sky
. . .

Firmly Marjorie reached for control, like at one of those riding-exhibitions where a single rider controls four horses with one rein, bringing us back to the physical airfield. It shimmered around us, but it was there. The helicopter blades began to hum again, to turn with a clattering roar.

We need more power, more strength
. For a moment I clearly saw my father's face, felt the strong line of rapport. He had awakened my gift; we were never wholly out of touch. I felt the amazement, the
fear
with which he felt the matrix touch him, momentarily draw him in. . . . He was gone. Had never been there. Then I felt Thyra reach out with a sure touch and draw Kermiac within the circle as if he had been physically present. For an instant the circle expanded with his strength, burning brilliantly, and the helicopter rose easily from the ground, hung there, quivering, rotors spinning with emphasis and force. I saw, I
felt
Kermiac crumple, withdraw. The lines of force went ragged . . . Kadarin and I locked hard together, supporting Marjorie as she controlled the wavering forces, lowering, lowering. . . . The helicopter bumped, hard, and the sound shattered the link. Pain crashed through me. Marjorie collapsed, sobbing. Beltran had seized Thyra by the shoulders, was shaking her like a dog shaking a rodent. He swung back his hand and slapped her full in the face. I felt—we all felt—the stinging pain of that blow.

“Vicious bitch! Damned she-devil,” Beltran shouted. “How dare you, damn you, how dare you—”

Kadarin grabbed him, pulled him from Thyra by main force. Beltran was still fighting, struggling. Cold terror clutching at me, I reached out for Kermiac.
Uncle, have they killed you?
After a moment, sick with relief, I felt his presence, a thread of life, weak, collapsed, but alive. Alive, thank God!

Kadarin was still holding Beltran off Thyra; he let him go, flinging him violently to the ground. He said, raging, “Lay a hand on her again, Beltran, and I'll kill you with my own hands!” He hardly looked human at all now.

Marjorie was crying, trembling so violently I feared she would fall senseless. I caught and supported her. Thyra put a hand to her bruised face. She said, trying to be defiant, “What a fuss about nothing! He's stronger than any of us!”

My fear for Kermiac had turned to anger almost as great as Beltran's own. How dared Thyra do this against his will and Marjorie's judgment? I knew I couldn't trust her, damned sneaking bitch! I turned on her, still holding Marjorie with one arm; she shrank away as if from a blow. That shocked me back to my senses. Strike a woman? Slowly, lowering my head, I thrust the wadding around the matrix. This rage was ours. It was as dangerous as what Thyra did.

Marjorie could stand alone now. I put the matrix in her hand and went toward Thyra. I said, “I'm not going to hurt you, child. But what possessed you to do such a thing?” One of the strongest laws of every telepath was never to force another's will or judgment. . . .

The defiance was gone from her face. She fingered the cheek Beltran had struck. “Truly, Lew,” she said, almost in a whisper, “I don't know. I felt we
needed
someone, and in days past this matrix had known the Aldarans, wanted Kermiac—no, that doesn't make sense, does it? And I felt that I could and I must because Marjorie wouldn't . . . I couldn't stop myself, I watched myself do it and I was afraid. . . .” She began to cry helplessly.

I stepped forward and took her into my arms, holding her against me, her face wet on my shoulder. I felt a shaking tenderness. We had all been helpless before that force. My own emotion should have warned me, but I was too distressed to feel alarm. The feel of her warm body in my arms should have warned me, too, at that stage, but I let her cling to me, sobbing, for a minute or two before I patted her shoulders tenderly, wiped her tears away and turned to help Beltran rise. He stood up stiffly, rubbing his hip. I sighed and said, “I know how you feel, Beltran. It was a dangerous thing to do. But you were in the wrong, too, losing your temper. A matrix technician must have control, must at all times.”

Defiance and contrition warred in his face. He fumbled for words, I should have waited for them—I was responsible for this whole circle—but I felt too sick and drained to try. I said curtly, “Better see if any harm was done to the helicopter when it crashed.”