“I’m not saying the trade sanctions were completely unwarranted. Xhido admits to exercising poor judgment during our attempt to subdue rebel forces two winters past.”
Kayla arched a brow, letting her silence answer the Paramount Ruler of Xhido Province’s statement. The weathered skin of his forehead crinkled as he searched for words.
“We could, perhaps, have been more restrained in our use of force on certain rebel installations.” He swallowed, but was quick to add, “Force that was deemed justifiable at the time.”
Most terrible ideas seemed justifiable at the time. “The deaths that occurred in the Qinqian Steppes incident, atop the imprisonment of hundreds of innocent civilians at Rhihadri, weigh heavily against you,” Kayla said. Isonde’s voice still sounded odd coming out of her mouth. It was like an echo, hearing her words in her mind in her voice, then speaking them with Isonde’s. “I find it hard to consider a lessening of the trade sanctions levied by the Sovereign Council.”
In truth Isonde had found it fairly easy to consider abolishing the sanctions altogether, she’d told Kayla. Part of her strategy for winning the Paramount Ruler’s support had been to imply that agreeing to vote down the sanctions was a great compromise for her, one she was only willing to make if the favor was returned. The civil unrest in Xhido had gotten out of hand, but the Sovereign Council had overreacted by laying down such heavy trade sanctions against the province. The country’s economy, crucial to the stability of the entire planet, threatened to collapse under the weight.
“If you would allow me to outline some of our latest efforts to reach peaceful accord with the outlying districts…”
His voice blended into groups of syllables. Damn, her shoulder ached.
She’d come home from the arena this afternoon and collapsed in her bed, still fully dressed. That bliss had lasted no more than five minutes before Toble came to torture her. He had her sitting up with a cellular repair cuff latched onto her shoulder for too long. At least he had the decency to shoot her up with a massive pain blocker first. She’d dozed in that state until he finally released her, then she’d passed out in bed, sleeping despite the fiery throbbing in her shoulder. Then he woke her up to do it all over again.
Minus the second round of sleeping. She could have used that.
No matter how her body felt, though, it was too important to be here tonight, walking in Isonde’s steps, tangoing with the influence-peddlers of the empire.
Despite the focus of her political agenda and her plans to win alliances, Kayla found herself surrounded by a different sort of crowd than she was used to, people she could only term as admirers. These people couldn’t care less about her politics. They did, however, find a surprisingly ass-kicking Princess Isonde fascinating, and for once Kayla had spent more time discussing the fights than her politics.
“Ah, but I see I am boring you.” The Paramount Ruler of Xhido Province’s voice brought her back to him with a start. She laid the tips of her fingers on his dark arm.
“No, not at all. My mind wandered but a moment. It has been an… exciting day.” She offered a sheepish smile.
He nodded, a half-bow that was all understanding. “Of course. Perhaps it is time to take a break from politics and just enjoy the evening in the company of so many.” He glanced past her shoulder to where hundreds of people danced to a multi-orchestral collaboration. “I see others about to descend upon us, I think I have stolen enough of your time.” He took her hand and pressed the back of it to his forehead. “May Jovannah’s laughter lighten your steps.”
As he walked away the nearby pocket of people shifted. Several had seemed engaged in conversations, each enjoying the company of others, but as soon as an opening presented itself at her side they looked ready to pounce on her. On Isonde.
A server passed by with a tray full of delicate glasses and she snagged one. She didn’t even glance at the liquid before downing a swallow. She had people to see, Isonde’s agenda to follow, but the evening felt relaxed. The jovial mood of the crowd entranced her. She was hopped up on pain meds and feeling somewhere between fuzzy and sharp, a place where her brain power slipped and her mind decided not to listen to the burn in her shoulder, the ache in her knee, fingers, foot…
She took another sip of the pink liquid. It was delicious, whatever it was.
::Delicious.::
The mind voice, same as earlier, came from nowhere, hitting her in the chest like a blow.
Vayne.
It felt like him. The slip of the word against her mind had his imprint, his scent almost, but the voice was wrong.
She studied those nearest to her. Who was it? A man and a woman approached from her right, the regents of Bostra come to discuss a border dispute, no doubt. Her gaze spread wider. Who?
She saw Vid resting against a pillar, a smile on his face while Trinan leaned toward him sharing a jest, hand braced on the pillar near Vid’s head. They looked so comfortable, so at ease. Then Vid glanced at her, the merest brush of an eyeball in her direction, but she knew. Guards.
::A woman like you, Princess, should not be alone.::
She turned a slow circle, searching the sea of strangers for a sign, an intentness that would give the Wyrd away. One of the Ilmenans? No, they weren’t here tonight.
::Look at this crowd. Who are you to these people but a symbol? A tool of power, a chance to climb.::
An invisible hand stroked a finger down her cheek, raising a shiver. The caress was familiar and foreign.
::I know you as they do not. Will you speak with me?::
Tears stung, taking her by surprise. Why do you feel like my Vayne? she asked in a voice no one could hear. The person must be nearby. Their mental presence hung in the air beside her, radiating expectancy and want. Vayne had never felt interested in her this way, but his essence imprinted itself on her. Weakly. A stamp made in ash instead of ink.
“I hate you,” she whispered, her lips barely shaping the words. She wanted him, this person who was almost her twin yet so far from him.
The regents of Bostra arrived and the stranger melted away.
* * *
Malkor crossed under the delicate glass arch that marked the entrance to the Yerlany Gardens a little after 19:00. The courtiers and councilors milling inside the entrance spared him a glance as he passed the twisted metal columns that outlined an open-form entranceway of sorts. Beyond that the greenery took over, covering the ground like a carpet and rising toward the sky. On his left, spindly ornamental trees hinted at a loose network of paths. They created a trail through the horticultural symphony, allowing visitors to stroll through the most diverse garden in the empire. Malkor had no interest in the display this evening, and headed instead to the right.
Here the garden opened into a large pavilion, complete with fountains, refreshments, music and a wild array of blossoms. Flowers, some the size of dinner plates or larger, bloomed in clusters around the edge of the paved pavilion, sprang from the dozens of sculpted metal and glass planters set throughout the open space and floated amid the showering falls of the fountains. Paths lined in pebbled stone meandered off from the center and led guests to quieter, secluded areas that offered privacy and intrigue aplenty. How would he ever track down Dolan in the maze of secret ways that spread out from the pavilion?
An unnecessary worry. A somber group clustered near a fountain. A bank of open space surrounded them and no one crossed the invisible barrier. Alone amid a crowd of milling guests, the Wyrds made for a striking quartet.
They were each dressed in various tones of blue. The younger of the two men, and also the shortest of the group, wore trousers of the darkest shade paired with a form-fitting vest of the same color over a white blouse with loose sleeves. His chin-length lavender hair looked casual and artfully precise at the same time. His elder wore a similar outfit, only his shirt was silver with a flare at the cuff and his pants were tucked into short boots. The tallest of their group, a woman, looked less formal than the two men in a lighter colored bodysuit and wide silver sash. Light rippled across the fabric’s sheen when she turned to silently scan the crowd.
Among them, only Princess Tia’tan smiled. She was dressed almost flamboyantly compared to the others in a floor-length gown of midnight blue. The neckline of the gown spread wide to her shoulders, barely hanging on, leaving her back bare. Her skirts flared in layer after layer of fabric. Silver edging lined the bottom, and mid-length sleeves left her muscled forearms on display.
Out of nowhere came a laugh from Tia’tan. She chuckled, purple eyes dancing as she bent to scoop a handful of pebbles from the fountain in front of her. No one else’s lips moved and none of the Wyrds spoke aloud, but she laughed again after a second, and the younger male grinned.
Looking completely unamused, Master Dolan stood beside the elder Wyrd male with his hands clasped behind him. He let the merriment die down, then continued the conversation he’d apparently been having with the Wyrd. Princess Tia’tan ignored him, idly tossing the pebbles to land one after the other in the fountain. The taller female angled away from the group, eyes never resting in one place.
Before Malkor could decide if he should approach Dolan now or later, their attention shifted to him. Tia’tan’s smile dimmed, then vanished, painted lips coming together in a neutral line as she glanced in his direction. The other Wyrds looked to be a mix of vaguely curious and disinterested. The bodyguard sized Malkor up with her piercing stare.
Now it was, then.
The Wyrds gave no indication of welcome when he approached, merely held their silence and looked at him in a way that had him attempting to reinforce his mental shields.
Dolan arched a brow, the permanent half-smirk present on one side of his mouth. “IDC afoot in the gardens, how unexpected.”
Malkor tried not to stare at the blank red orb of the man’s ruined eye or the web of scars that started at his temple and spidered out across his right brow and cheek.
“We have been known to take the odd hour or two off,” Malkor said.
“So this is a social inquiry, then?” Dolan waited for the lie.
“A not-so-chance meeting, perhaps.” He nodded to the Wyrds, who had yet to do more than look at him.
Dolan gestured with an elegant hand. “Have you the pleasure of my guests’ acquaintance?”
“Not yet,” he replied, though he knew every one of them. Noar, the youngest male, accompanied Tia’tan to the pit. Joffar, the elder male, and Luliana, the female bodyguard, spent every series just above the pit in the stands, their intent stares following the Game’s progress. Dolan made the introductions and the Wyrds unbent enough to incline their heads when named. Tia’tan opened her hand in the stilted silence that followed and a stream of pebbles splashed into the fountain with a loud sploosh. She dusted her palms with her fingertips, first one then the other, while watching him. Her gaze traced his uniform, touching briefly on the pin he wore to signify his rank as an octet leader—the outlines of eight overlapping silver rectangles fanning out to form a ninety degree arc.
Tia’tan didn’t say a thing, but Luliana cracked a smile, Noar ducked his head with a slight cough and Joffar tried not to look amused. A glance at Dolan’s face showed he felt as much frustration as Malkor at not hearing the silent exchange, though he quickly hid it.
“Could you leave your charming guests to their amusements for a few moments?” Malkor asked him.
“Of course. I find I am quite ready for a diversion.”
Malkor headed toward an unattended fountain across the way. From there he’d spot anyone who approached to eavesdrop, and the waterfall would provide white-noise cover from any listening devices.
He stopped a meter from the fountain. Hopefully the polite mask he wore hid his distaste, not only for the kin’shaa, but for the whole situation he found himself in. It should—he’d been perfecting it for years.
There were a dozen ways he could hint at his true reason for being here, things he could say whose double-meanings would lead to a conversation within a conversation that might, just maybe, save him from an admission of guilt. He ignored them all. The fact that he met with Dolan by choice said they were past that.
“I received your message.”
“Excellent.” Dolan inclined his head. “I’m glad you decided to seek me out.”
“It was thought-provoking, if ambiguous.” Malkor studied the man’s scarred face, judging intent.
“One can’t be too careful, given the situation.”
“And just what situation is that, exactly?”
Dolan chuckled. “Surely you’re aware of your own predicament, Senior Agent.”
Malkor forced a smile in response. “Humor me.”
“You have friends in high places. Good friends. That’s well-known, but what isn’t as clear is how far you might go for them.” Dolan clasped his hands behind his back, looking perfectly at ease in lavender robes, despite his shorter stature. “You, I and your friends know exactly how far. Far enough to see a woman you once coveted married to another man, far enough to compromise your career in the IDC and, in fact, risk your very life. It’s because of those friends that you find yourself here, fixing the Game you were meant to police.”
There was no point in denying it.
Dolan continued. “Your plan is sound, I’ll give you that. With your means and resources it might almost have succeeded.”
“Almost?” Surely the man didn’t discount Kayla’s skill and her ability to win the Empress Game.
“You have two problems, the first being that your plan relies too heavily on people whose loyalty you misjudged.”
Janeen. How had he known? Suspicion bloomed in his mind. Dolan could have been involved, could have helped Janeen secure the toxin, or might be hiding her even now. “And the second?”
“The second is, of course, my guests. Not your fault, though, you couldn’t have predicted the allies I would bring to bear at the Game.” Dolan looked a touch too satisfied for his liking.
“Isonde can defeat Princess Tia’tan.”
The kin’shaa surprised him by chuckling. “It’s charming that you refer to her as ‘Isonde.’”
“Should I not?”
“Call her what you like, I only find it amusing that when you and I know the truth, you still act as though nothing untoward is occurring.”
“Your Wyrd princess is talented,” Malkor said, “but not unbeatable.”
“You are discounting her unique set of assets, I think. And those of her companions.”
So they did intend to cheat. Understandable. They wouldn’t have come all this way to lose. Then again, neither had Kayla and Corinth.
“It might be too much to automatically assume their psi powers will tip the balance in Tia’tan’s favor,” Malkor said. It was nearly a certainty and he knew it. Still, he went on. “You yourself taught the IDC that some individuals have inborn defenses, and others can be instructed to develop them.” A junior IDC agent crossing the pavilion caught his eye, and Malkor forced himself to smile in a friendly fashion and offer a nod of hello to her, silently wishing the young woman on her way. Dolan had the good sense to keep quiet until the agent passed out of earshot.
“That is true, but how effective do you think those defenses will be against four expertly trained psionics?”
How effective could Kayla be? She was a Wyrd princess, surely as well-trained as the Ilmenan bunch, with well-established shields. Could she withstand any pressure they might put on her? For that matter, how many Wyrds would she have to worry about? Tia’tan wouldn’t be doing anything more than fighting, but Noar was in the pit with her, more than ready to attack Kayla with his mind. And the others? How far could a Wyrd extend his influence? He was overdue for a long talk with Kayla about the nature of her psi powers.
Malkor forced himself to maintain his polite tone. “I appreciate the enormity of the advantage your people seem to have. It can’t be that easy, though. If their combined psi powers could win Tia’tan the crown and a seat on the imperial Council of Seven, you wouldn’t have requested a meeting with me.”
“It is that easy, I assure you. However, my friends are coming to understand the nature of the political system in the empire. While they could use their skills to win the Game and the throne, they’re beginning to question whether that is the best outcome they can achieve.”
Malkor arched a brow. “They have loftier goals?”
Dolan smiled privately at the thought. “Perhaps, but in this instance I believe they are looking for a more effective outcome than putting Tia’tan on the throne.”
“Such as?”
“The real power of having a seat on the Council of Seven comes from being the deciding vote that controls which way the Council goes on any major issue. Without the influence to sway half of the other votes, the Empress becomes less effective.” Dolan made a vague motion with one hand, delicately emphasizing the point. “My people lack allies.”
“I can’t imagine why,” Malkor said. “It’s not as if they refuse to help us while millions of our people are consumed alive by the Tetratock Nanovirus.”
“We are not your enemy, Agent. Ilmena was not consulted by the empire about designing a cure. In any case, that’s not what we’re here to discuss.”
It might as well be. The entire Game, as far as he was concerned, was a battle for control over the empire’s next move with regard to the Ordochians and a cure for the TNV. A battle he, Ardin and Isonde couldn’t bear to lose. He took a deep breath, unseating the tension that had grown between his shoulder blades.
Dolan continued. “Princess Isonde is a formidable and growing force in the empire, with strong allies in the Protectorate and Sovereign Councils—not to mention she all but owns Ardin’s vote in the Council of Seven. She has the political cachet to see her agendas progress. If her agendas allied with those of my guests, they might consider aiding, rather than defeating her in the Game.”
Malkor blinked, uncertain what he’d heard. “Did you just offer to help put Isonde on the throne?”
Dolan inclined his head. “Possibly. They are considering it. Though it is hard to ignore the fact that they would still have much power if Tia’tan won.”
The water splashing in the fountain filled the silence. Could it be that simple? With the Wyrds’ aid Isonde was all but assured the crown. Their logic was reasonable—Isonde would fight for Ordoch’s freedom, and could accomplish ten times the amount the Wyrds would be able to in the Councils. The councilors would oppose Tia’tan’s agendas every time. She’d have a hard time accomplishing anything more important than a lunch order.
“What’s your angle?” Malkor asked.
“My guests would of course stay on as advisors to Isonde, and be given prominent positions within the government. She would take their input on certain matters, and—”
“Not theirs,” Malkor interrupted, “yours. What do you get from arranging this alliance?”
He expected to hear a line about how proud Dolan was to be able to assist his countrymen, to try to mend relations between the empire and the Wyrd Worlds, or even something about doing the right thing for no reason other than that it was just.
“I want the princess.”
Malkor didn’t wonder for a second which princess he meant. “Not happening.”
“What use will you have for her once ‘Isonde’ wins the Game?” Dolan smiled, a look that set Malkor on edge. “I dare say she’s a liability, someone you couldn’t trust to wander around freely. Let me look after her.”
“And by ‘look after her’ you mean…?” The kin’shaa knew. Frutt. He knew, and he wanted her. Malkor eyed the entrance to the garden. How quickly could he find Kayla if he sprinted out of here this instant, find her and assure her safety?
“Perhaps I think she’ll make a good wife.”
He’d suck vacuum first.
Dolan arched a brow, giving him a slow once-over. “Maybe you mean to ‘look after’ her yourself.”
Fine job he’d done of it so far. Malkor didn’t bother to answer.
“The princess will be safe with me,” Dolan said, “I assure you.”
Malkor drew himself up, and his tone, when he spoke, was polite, if a touch frosty. “Thank you for your generous offer of aid, but I’m afraid we must decline.”
“For now, perhaps. We’ll speak again soon, Agent Rua.” The kin’shaa offered a short bow and made his way back to where the silent Wyrds waited.
Malkor headed for the exit as quickly as he could without knocking people down.
* * *
Kayla must have spoken to everyone at the party this evening. Certainly everyone seemed to have approached her. Everyone, that was, except Malkor. He had arrived at the dinner hall over an hour ago and hovered on the edge, in sight but too distant to engage.
For the best.
After their conversation yesterday and his insistence that she remain as Isonde, she didn’t want to speak to him. Something was on his mind, though. He had an intensity about him that unsettled her.
What—did he think she meant to flee? Rip the hologram off and declare to everyone that she was a fraud, that the real Isonde had been struck down? Or was something else afoot?
The head of state for Terra Prime descended on her with a gush of smiles and congratulations. She fully expected him to immediately turn the conversation to their mutual trade agreement. When instead he discussed only her success in the arena that day and his well wishes for her continued good fortune, the truth of the situation struck. He expected her to win. He hadn’t come to discuss a sticky political situation with Princess Isonde, he’d come to make the first inroads with soon-to-be Empress-Apparent Isonde, one half of the couple set to inherit the throne on the emperor’s death.
The party grew by one, then three, then six as others, sensing room at her side, joined their circle. Isonde, already a star in the sea of power-players, was a constellation unto herself now. Kayla was deep in a conversation with senior members of the Sovereign Council when the satellite that had orbited all evening was pulled in by her gravity.
Malkor. Approaching her, clearly on a mission.
The governor to Kayla’s left frowned, turning her head to murmur something to her lieutenant governor. Beside her other murmurs arose. Here a nervous gesture, there a bracing gulp of a drink. The senior councilors broke off and their stares turned chilly, but no one looked in Malkor’s direction. Instead, the uncertainty focused on someone behind her.
Intriguing. Kayla readied a polite smile, curious about the prejudice against whomever approached. The smile froze on her face when a gentle voice she recalled too well spoke Isonde’s name.
“How lovely you look this evening,” the kin’shaa said. Conversation halted and people shifted away from the Wyrd, trying not to look like they recoiled even as they gave ground.
As Grand Advisor of Science and Technology to the current emperor, Dolan was too important to ignore. That didn’t stop her companions from looking like they wished to be elsewhere. At least she knew now why Malkor had been trying to come to her rescue.
“Master Dolan.” She didn’t bother to nod in greeting.
“White is exquisite on the princess, don’t you agree, Sir Jahvier?” Dolan looked directly at a man who’d attempted to sidle away from his company.
“I— but of course. Princess Isonde is as lovely as ever.” Jahvier smiled weakly.
No one offered small talk to fill the awkward void in the air.
Dolan’s lips quirked, his sarcastic smirk deepening. “I’m sure I’ve interrupted a stimulating conversation. I wonder, though, if you’ve had enough of talking for one night, Princess?”
“I was enjoying my company greatly, to this moment.”
“No doubt.” His lavender robes stirred as he angled himself to more fully center his attention on her. “Surely it is exhausting to be always speaking politics, though.”
Kayla flexed her fingers, itching to shove him away from her with all her strength. As Isonde, she could not. He and Isonde had a working, if not warm, relationship. Isonde had told her that they interfaced from time to time, mostly during social affairs at court.
“Come. Enough work.” He held out a hand to her, palm up. She made no move to touch him.
They had everyone’s attention now. The look in his good eye said it all: he wouldn’t back down.
You were there, she wanted to say. On Ordoch. I saw you, I remember. You killed my Vayne. She wanted to spit in his face. Her fingers curled around the spot where a kris dagger should have been strapped to her thigh. She would jam it up under his ribs, punching with all her force, her hand making a hollow in his stomach as she drove it in. Then she’d withdraw and do it again.
But Isonde never would.
Instead, with everyone watching her and a burning in the back of her throat that was loss and rage and hatred, she laid her hand on his.
“Where to?”
As he led her to the dance floor her gaze connected with Malkor’s. He’d stopped near Vid and Trinan, all three equally worried. She shook her head when he started to come after her. She could do this. One dance with Dolan to maintain appearances, then she’d quit the evening before the elite of the empire witnessed the impeccable Princess Isonde commit murder. The last thing any of them needed was Malkor making a scene. Vid laid a hand on Malkor’s arm, halting him as well.
“You seem to have something of a watchdog, Princess,” Dolan murmured, leading her into the crowd and away from her guards. Astute bastard.
He might have been handsome once, in the Wyrd way, before the Kalichma Ritual scarred him. The thought stopped her. In the Wyrd way? When had she decided there was any other way to be handsome? He was short, coming to her chin. It was said that in Ilmenans especially, the height (or lack thereof) of a man marked his power. He must have been an impressive psionic once.
No longer. Now he was as ruined as she.
He drew her through rings of dancers and into an empty pocket near the center where Malkor couldn’t see them. A pocket that subtly widened. They had privacy in the middle of it all, and an audience large enough to guarantee her best behavior. He turned to face her, that permanent half-smile on his face, and brought her closer by gently tugging on her hand. She tried not to flinch when he reached for her other hand. At least the dance required no more than this, intermittent hand-holding between turns and a series of steps that would bring them around each other.
She forced herself to look into his eyes, both of them, the healthy and the blank one.
“I’m here. What did you want?”
He didn’t miss a beat, even with her brusque opening. “Your company.”
“And what else?” They stepped apart before coming back together. He was younger than she remembered, younger than her own father but still older than her eldest brother and his twin sister had been.
“That isn’t enough?”
“Not for you.”
Was Isonde this rude with him? Not for the first time she felt at a loss when trying to play Isonde’s relationships. She’d blanked on someone earlier who had apparently been a longtime confidant of the princess. She softened. “I mean, you are very busy after all, with your guests.”
“They have little interest in the general amusements of the Game, and I found myself craving the company of someone who spoke aloud, if only for a short time.”
“And so you sought me?”
He smiled. “Who better?”
Perhaps someone who doesn’t intend to kill you before the Game is over.
“You’re quite possibly the most influential woman in the empire.”
She relaxed a fraction. This she could handle.
“So you do have an agenda.” She opened up as much space between them as the dance allowed. “Let’s hear it.”
“Didn’t I claim a lack of interest in politics this evening?”
“I doubt you ever tire of politics.”
He inclined his head. “Tonight, though, I prefer to dance.”
She stepped to the side as he did, bringing them shoulder to shoulder, their gazes in line.
Kin’shaa. Exile. And with good reason. He should have been executed for his ethical violations against his own people. Well before joining the empire, well before coming to Ordoch as a supposed emissary of peace and betraying her family, he had been a scientist. A neuroengineer. Every Wyrd had read the account of his crimes.
She spun around him and he again took her hands, smiling as he watched her, no doubt sensing her tension. Reveling in the power of it.
Dolan’s cutting-edge research had been funded by the Ilmenan government. He’d developed an advanced AI, a synthetic brain that could interpret commands sent telepathically. It was rudimentary, he’d reported, but reliable. It would revolutionize the service and machine industry. Bots of every type—domestic, educational, constructional, militaristic—would be able to receive and act on commands through a psionic link with the user. His work was so advanced, with such a widespread potential for good, that he’d been allocated unlimited funds to improve the design.
And he’d improved it.
His quest to refine the psionic AI outstripped that of his peers, and unbeknownst to them he began his own research project in the other direction. He developed an AI not only capable of receiving telepathic commands, but sending them.
Kayla stepped away from him, trying to picture the slight man before her as the orchestrator of such a heinous experiment. He looked like any other councilor or advisor here. Understated lavender robes, zipped from toe to jaw, said he eschewed any vanity about his form. His only adornment was a series of rings, and his smile was polite, if a bit mocking. It would be hard for those gathered to imagine that he had raped an entire group of people mentally. Repeatedly, for years.
He’d set up a group of test subjects for his AI. She couldn’t recall what the cover story was, but all of his test subjects believed they were brought to live in a community for some other reason. He had one goal: override the minds and personalities of others on a protracted basis to see just how far he could push them beyond their natural inclinations. While a powerful Wyrd could, with enough force or surprise, inflict mind control on someone, it was severely limited—by proximity to the victim, the strength of the perpetrator’s psi powers, and of course the perpetrator’s need to be conscious the whole time.
An AI capable of sending sophisticated telepathic signals, however, with a direct and unflagging power source, could send those signals indefinitely. Dolan, using that AI as an amplifier, had controlled each and every member of the community, warping them into someone else. He made the peaceful violent, the shy gregarious. He manipulated love and hate, fear and loyalty. He controlled them down to their basic moral impetuses, determining their compass of right and wrong. He violated them on every level, using them as tools against each other. Who knows how far he would have taken it if he hadn’t been caught.
He clasped her hand, one of his thumbs moving over her skin in an almost-caress. The music pulled her toward him, away. Toward, around.
He deserved death. But even for a criminal who had tormented the souls of so many, Ilmena had no death penalty. The Kalichma Ritual should have killed him. Instead, like a festering supervirus that resisted every antibiotic thrown at it, he’d survived.
Survived to kill her il’haar.
Screw it. Scene or no scene, she had to leave.
Kayla pulled her hands from his with a snap. He stopped as well, a brow arched, looking amused.
“You must excuse me, the tournament begins early again tomorrow.”
He gave her a deep bow, eyes on her the whole time. “Of course.”
As she stepped off, he stopped her with a raised hand. “Princess? I should have mentioned this before, but… How like your brother you look. The resemblance is striking.” He bowed again. “Sleep well.”
The offhand comment shouldn’t have raised the hair on the back of her neck except for one thing—Isonde didn’t have a brother.