CHAPTER SIX

When Jahir woke, it was to the ache of a body forced to conform against a very cold, very hard floor… and to the worst headache he’d ever had, so intense he feared to move or open his eyes. So he didn’t. Listening, he could hear the rustle of other people, the slow breathing of unconscious bodies and the quickened of frightened, wakeful people. And beside him… he stretched his palm, felt the paw under it.

“You’re awake,” Vasiht’h murmured.

“With no recollection of how I came not to be, I fear.” He licked his lips, found them too dry. “Did I…”

“You tried to fight them.” The Glaseah’s voice was slurred—fatigue? “But you used up everything you had fighting off the pirates. And then you used up everything in me as a last effort.”

Jahir winced. “I am guessing you have my headache as well.”

“Pretty close, if not exactly.” Vasiht’h rested his cheek on Jahir’s back. “There was nothing we could do. They got us all. And now… Goddess only knows what they’re going to do with us.”

“The Chatcaava,” Jahir repeated.

“Yes.”

“Not the pirates.”

“No.”

This was significant. Why? “Lisinthir.”

“Not here,” Vasiht’h muttered.

No, he wasn’t. But: “They’re looking for him.”

Vasiht’h’s chin turned on his back, and from the direction of his partner’s voice, the Glaseah was now looking at him. “And?”

“And… I can look like him.”

The Glaseah’s sigh ruffled the hair on the back of his head. “You don’t look like him now. Don’t you think they’d notice?”

“One of us looks very like the other.” That seemed important. Vague memories from school then, learning about the importance of differentiating features in each Alliance species so that the individuals would stand out more clearly. “Especially we Eldritch. Coloring, height…”

“Assuming they didn’t get any imagery of us before you made this switch.”

That was a risk. A terrible one; if they knew he’d changed his appearance, they could find the roquelaure.

“Besides,” Vasiht’h said, tired. “What would looking like him accomplish?”

A good question. It was hard to think past the pounding in his temples, but he assumed that would recede with time and rest. If time and rest were in his future. “They would not seek him if they did not fear him.”

“Not necessarily. Maybe they just want him. Because he’s decorative. Or a celebrity. The Eldritch who captured an Emperor’s heart, or something.”

“Maybe,” Jahir murmured, but that didn’t seem in character with the people who could use the language he’d been stroking off Lisinthir’s skin, gasping in with his kisses. No, there was something there… some thread that tied into the skein of the fate being woven for them. “I can look like him. And that means they will stop looking for him.”

Vasiht’h grew still against him.

“That would leave him freer to do what he must.”

“And what about us?” Vasiht’h asked.

“Freedom is not in our immediate future, unless something extraordinary happens,” Jahir said. “We are captured and bound for servitude somewhere.” He tried to evaluate his partner’s emotions through the mindline, but could not—he could feel the mindline but touching it felt like twinging a raw nerve. “You are… very calm?”

“I’m exhausted,” Vasiht’h said. “There’s only so much you can panic before you cross over some line and then… you have nothing left to be terrified with.” He sighed again. “We’re in Aksivaht’h’s hands now. Maybe when I’m less exhausted I’ll be able to be scared again. But right now? I guess we’re alive, and that’s all I have.”

For some time, Jahir lay thus, with his friend folded over him, experiencing the throbbing ache in his head, the utter debilitation of his body. Ignoring the moans and stifled sobs of the fellow prisoners. Observing that the chill communicated to his body by the floor made his joints stiffer but seemed to be helping with his head.

Then, he said, “It is likely we’ll be separated.”

Vasiht’h did not reply immediately. Then, low, “That would be awful.”

“Yes.”

Another long silence. Tentative, Vasiht’h said, “Maybe we’ll still be able to hear each other through the mindline?”

“Possibly.”

“But if not…”

Jahir thought about this, then murmured, “Sit up a moment?” When Vasiht’h raised his weight up, the Eldritch turned onto his back and held out his arms. Vasiht’h hesitated, then rested his torso against Jahir’s. It was an awkward hug until Vasiht’h also threw one of his forepaws over the Eldritch’s hips, and then they were as comfortable as they could be, given the circumstances. Jahir’s head still hurt, but the closeness helped. The smell of Vasiht’h’s fur, which was the smell of safety, and love, and hope. The way proximity allowed him to count the lashes fringing his friend’s closed eyes. They were particolored—the upper lashes dark and the lower light—how had he never noticed? He liked seeing the way breathing flared the nostrils on the leathery nose. The subtle whiskers on his friend’s muzzle tickled.

“There is something you should know,” Jahir said.

“What is that?”

“Look up?”

Vasiht’h shifted his head just enough that he could focus one eye on Jahir’s, the pupil dilating.

“If we are separated… I will move Heaven and land until we are reunited again. Do not doubt that.”

His friend huffed softly. “I’m not helpless, you know. Maybe it’s me who’ll move Heaven and land to find you.”

“Promise me you’ll trust in that. We will not die apart, ariihir.”

That tensed his friend’s body against his. “You mean that?”

“With every fiber in me.”

Vasiht’h shuddered and hid his face in the crook of Jahir’s neck.

“That was intended to hearten you,” Jahir said ruefully, setting his hand on the back of Vasiht’h’s head.

“And it does. It’s just that it also makes it real that it’s probably going to happen. And… I don’t want to go through this without you.”

Even with the mindline too tender for use, Jahir could sense the panic rising in the Glaseah. He wrapped both arms tightly around Vasiht’h and said, “Live now. The next moment never comes. We are always here, right now.”

“And yet, things happen,” Vasiht’h said against his neck.

“Live now,” Jahir said.

With a shiver, the Glaseah subsided and then there was quiet. Jahir willed his own certitudes into his friend and doubted that it was working. What did work was that the Glaseah began to breathe at his far more pacific rate, and that tamped his anxiety. They found a rhythm, even slept a little. The next time Jahir woke, the headache was much improved… which was good, because it meant he had the faculties to react to the Chatcaava entering the cargo bay. Rolling his back to them, he woke the roquelaure.

Base shape, he commanded it. Mimic actual injury state.

/Ariihir! They’re coming this way!/

Because of course they would be. They had captured one of their Eldritch; they would want to know what sort of prize they’d managed. He lifted his eyes and saw himself reflected in Vasiht’h’s reaction. /It will be fine,/ he said firmly.

/No, it’s going to be awful!/

/It will be awful but it will be fine in the end./

Vasiht’h’s mouth twisted. /Stop trying to make me laugh./

/That wasn’t intended as humor—/ He winced as someone grabbed his arm. It wouldn’t matter what he looked like if he didn’t react like Lisinthir, so… he jerked the arm forward and tried to throw his assailant past him. His position on the ground gave him little leverage, and his lack of experience with unarmed combat deprived the motion of any chance of success, but….

“It’s alive, at least.”

Another voice, irritated. “We didn’t want any of them killed.”

Jahir listened, careful. The accents were very similar to the one Lisinthir had been using, which was fortunate, because the Chatcaava were speaking so quickly that they would probably have lost him otherwise.

Another prod at his back, cautious. Jahir shoved himself upright, summoning the memory of his fulminating anger. He threw his hair over his shoulder and shot a glare past it at the Chatcaava studying him, and as they squinted at him, he lunged for one of them. Luck alone crashed him into one of them, given how poorly he felt, but he rode that luck all the way back to the ground, reaching instinctively for the flailing wings in an attempt to pinch nerves he assumed must be plentifully supplied throughout the arms and vanes.

The second Chatcaavan hauled him off the first. Jahir rammed an elbow into him and managed to send him backpedaling. That left him between the two of them, panting and sweating even in the cold, dry air of the hold… and then the headache reasserted itself and he staggered, pressing a hand to his temple. He went to a knee without remembering how he got there.

“No doubt about it,” the first Chatcaavan said warily. “That’s the one the Emperor wants.”

“The prize money’s going to be good.”

“So it is.” The first Chatcaavan lifted his voice. “You hear that, freak? You’re heading back to the palace. But this time a real Emperor’s waiting for you, and he’s not going to be interested in your talents in bed.”

Lisinthir would have managed a barbed response to that. Jahir was glad enough that he didn’t vomit from the throbbing in his head.

/Lie back down,/ Vasiht’h whispered. /You’re going to need your strength./

/I have no notion how Lisinthir managed his bravado while half-dead./

/I hope you don’t have to find out./

The separation came too soon and was as traumatic as Jahir had feared. At some point the shiver through the hold indicated they’d stopped, or docked—some change—and then the Chatcaava began moving through the corridor, and his talent had returned enough to inform him that they were coming for him… to transfer him to another ship.

And what he knew, Vasiht’h now knew through the mindline.

/This is it,/ Jahir whispered.

/They weren’t supposed to take you until we reached a planet, the same planet!/ Vasiht’h answered, anguish contorting the words until the mindline itself seemed to convulse. /How can we hear each other if they separate us across worlds? How will we find one another?/

Jahir grasped the Glaseah’s shoulders, willing him to stop hyperventilating. /We will find a way. Do you hear me, ariihir?/ Aloud, soft, “Vasiht’h. We will. I vow it you.”

“The last words I’m going to hear you say and they’re not even in your voice,” Vasiht’h whimpered, clutching at his arms. “I don’t know if I can do this. I don’t know if I can do this!”

“You can, and you will.” In the mindline, where his voice was his own: /Please, beloved. Believe me. I cannot lie to you here./

/But you don’t know everything!/

/It is never given to any of us to do so. But still… please…/ They were almost at the door now. /Don’t let this be the sight of you I must take with me into captivity. We have work to do here, love. We must be strong to do it./

/It was supposed to be your work! Not mine!/

/The Goddess,/ Jahir said, staring into his eyes, /wills. Not us./

Vasiht’h’s mouth dropped open. And then, closing his eyes: /I’m so scared./

/Me too./ Jahir leaned forward, kissed his dearest friend’s brow. /I love you. And I will see you again, soon./

Vasiht’h swallowed and squeezed him once, and then backed away quickly as the Chatcaava entered.

“So, freak,” the first said, and Jahir was grimly satisfied to see they’d brought five more Chatcaava, visibly armed, as reinforcements. “Your transport to the throneworld awaits.”

“Excellent,” Jahir said in slow but confident Chatcaavan. “I am looking forward to my appointment with the Usurper.”

As the Chatcaava grabbed his arms, he whispered, /Remember./

Soft and shaken, but audible: /I will./

They bound him. Jahir fought it because he presumed Lisinthir would have, but they overpowered him and left him with his hands tied behind his back to his ankles. His cousin would have found it infuriating; for his part, Jahir found himself thinking Lisinthir had tied him more securely during their tryst. Had his cousin been preparing him for something like this? The answer was probably ‘yes,’ but also ‘but it was also for the purposes of the tryst,’ because… they were Eldritch, in the end. Why do anything for a single reason when it might serve for several?

Concentrating on this kept him from reaching for Vasiht’h. His headache was receding, but it remained beyond him to exert his new talents, and the mindline, though much older than those abilities, still involved the same sort of effort. He would have to be cognizant of that limitation in the future: that he was capable of extraordinary feats, but his stamina was not that of the god he felt himself in those moments. And once he failed, he failed hard. He could not afford to do that in the future, since they were intending to bring him to the center of the madness.

What would he be able to accomplish there? Something. He had to believe that.

Lisinthir had left him the roquelaure.

Such an amulet rampant, cousin, he thought, ignoring the ache in his shoulders and the hunger that was beginning to gnaw at him despite his persistent nausea. Surely there has never been such an amulet rampant in the history of our kind. Someone will have to write about it, when all of this is over.

No answer. He suppressed his shiver at the loneliness in his own mind.

The journey took... less time than he assumed, because they fed him only once—and not enough, by his ravenous stomach’s lights—and set him to necessities, and then bound him again. Jahir didn’t sleep, or at least, not for long. A nap, and then he was once again in motion, this time over the Chatcaavan equivalent of a Pad and onto alien ground. He inhaled sharply, finding the air strange and yet familiar, tinted with the saltwater sting of a foreign sea. And the sky above him... it yawed impossibly wide, streaked in pink and a pale mint green in clouded veils as the sun lowered behind the towers before him. Astonishing fingers of stone, those towers, rising to dizzying heights, so delicate for their arrogance. Only a flying race would think to erect such things and stud their exteriors with so many openings, none of which had rails that he could see.

“Stop staring,” one of the Chatcaava snarled, yanking at his arm. “It hasn’t changed since you’ve been here.”

“Except for the better,” another said with a hissing laugh.

Jahir said nothing. The time for speech would come, but he preferred to marshal his reserves until then.

They marched him, when they did not drag him, up a set of stairs that had no ending, as far as he could tell. His body’s complaints became more vociferous, and he was in the process of ignoring them when a chime sounded in his ear, subtly dissonant. Three tones—he could not think clearly enough to isolate them. Music theory was some hundred years in his past now. Startled, he almost stumbled, recovering before the dragons could haul him upright. The implant had not yet communicated with him in any meaningful way; he’d assumed it to require some bit of embedded Fleet hardware he didn’t have. Of course, it was probably capable of building the necessary parts in him, knowing Alliance technology—that thought made him deeply uneasy, so he chose to believe instead that it was simply deploying something it had needed time to prepare.

He tried subvocalizing a query. Energy level?

No response.

Roquelaure, he said. Energy level?

Energy level moderate, it whispered back, and he was surprised that it could startle him when he’d been expecting a response. Consider refueling soon.

He managed a wry smile. Something to discuss with his captors, he supposed.

The stairs continued for a seeming eternity before they emptied on the top floor of the tower. There he was shoved for a final time through a door and to his knees, and the foot on his back kept him there. He looked up through his hair, and while seething was beyond him, a baleful glare he could do. He remembered Lisinthir’s eyes when they first met on the Quicklance: that look that promised even as it assessed. He only wished what he was viewing would be worthy of such a look, because at first glance the Chatcaavan male staring down at him was unprepossessing in the extreme. He had a constrained body language, twitchy and precise, almost mincing; the eyes were prone to squinting and the way the male held his head was far too tense.

Had these observations not come from the mists of memories borrowed from someone else, Jahir would have worried he was anthropomorphizing his foe. But while Lisinthir’s experiences were more inchoate than distinct, they were still more than enough to tell him this creature didn’t belong in this tower.

And that told Jahir, the therapist, something alarming about the probable mental stability of the male who was, nevertheless, in this tower.

Another male hove into view, and to make the situation worse, this one did have the body language of a male who could have led Chatcaava. Yet he was standing a little behind and to one side of the first, as if subordinating himself. Why? It made no sense.

“The Ambassador,” the first male said.

“As I promised,” said the second. “I trust you’re pleased.”

“It is good to have him out of play.” The first male’s eyes were intent, unblinking. “Like the Slave Queen, he represented a loose end. I don’t like loose ends, Second.”

Second snorted, but the sound was indulgent. “No, you don’t, huntbrother. It’s one of the reasons you succeed so handily at all you do.” He tilted his head. “So, do you have plans for him, or shall I dispose of him as I did the Slave Queen?”

“I will take care of him.”

Second turned his head toward the first—the male who must be the new Emperor, Jahir thought—and widened his eyes. “I thought you preferred to leave that sort of thing to me.”

“I will take care of him,” the first male said. And, with narrowed eyes: “I wish to examine him.”

The second male tossed his neat queue behind his shoulder. “I’m sure that’s what Kauvauc wanted as well, and look where that led him.”

The first male drew his lips back from his teeth. Very fanged teeth. “I am not Kauvauc, to allow this creature to seduce me with the power of his flesh.”

“And you think his thoughts any less parlous?” Second resettled his wings. Agitation, perhaps? “You’d be better off just killing him.”

This would be the point where Lisinthir interjected, Jahir thought. But it was not Lisinthir’s bravado that informed his carefully accented offering. “He’s right, you know. The Emperor couldn’t handle me. You think you’re capable? I doubt that sincerely.”

The first male’s eyes narrowed. “Your master is dead, freak. I, myself, ordered him killed and took his throne.”

“Ordered him?” Jahir asked, and he didn’t even need Lisinthir’s knowledge of Chatcaavan culture to hear the problem in that one word. “You didn’t kill him yourself?”

“I did kill him myself,” the male said. “By having him killed.” He mantled his wings. “You should appreciate such methods, given your pacifist culture.”

Jahir laughed. “So you weren’t male enough to duel him and win by right of strength?” He glanced at Second. “You, maybe. You might have beaten him. If you’d been lucky.”

Second’s bright eyes slitted as he stared at Jahir. Then he ignored the Eldritch to say to the new Emperor, “Kill him. He’s still dangerous.”

“Do you think me incapable of handling him?” the new Emperor—the Usurper—said. “I am the Emperor.”

“So was Kauvauc,” Second said. “These creatures are a sickness, huntbrother. Just slay this one and be done with it.”

“You are concerned about a race of powerless aliens?” the Usurper showed his teeth briefly. “Call off the search for any others, then. We have the only one that matters.” He studied Jahir. “I intend to keep him.”

“I don’t think—”

“That’s obvious.” The Usurper twitched his wings, settled them neatly against his back. “Because if you’d been thinking, you wouldn’t be treating this wingless catamite as if he was a Chatcaavan, to be feared. He is a pet, Second. And I have decided he shall be my pet.”

“You have no pets,” Second said.

“Which is why I should take one, yes? Everyone is very concerned about my lack of interest in the harem or the acquisition of new slaves to the replace the ones Kauvauc lost. Let this be a reassuring symbol.” When Second didn’t respond, the Usurper said, “It is something of a coup to have captured him. You should be pleased.”

Second eyed Jahir, then said, “You should kill him.”

“So you’ve already said. Several times now. I have heard your opinion.” The Usurper waved to the guards. “Take the freak away. Have him prepared for service.”

The chime sounded in his ear again. Reminded, Jahir said, “It was rather a long journey. You should feed me.”

“Feed you!”

“And wash me,” Jahir said. He could hear his cousin’s voice in his ears, the intonation, the careless insolence. “I’ve become rather dingy. I can’t imagine being much of a decoration like this. Particularly if I’m not allowed to tend to the body’s needs.”

“The only needs you’ll be tending—”

“He means evacuation of his bowels,” Second said, dry.

The Usurper’s nostrils flared. “Fine. Then feed and wash and see to his... needs... and then finish preparing him for service.”

“So gracious,” Jahir said. “You might at some point manage to sound like an Emperor instead of a lackey. At some point.”

The Usurper stared at him, eyes intent, almost as if there was something behind them, something unstable... but the moment passed. The Chatcaava said to the guards, “Take him away.”

And he went with them, very aware of the conversation the Usurper and Second were resuming as he was marched from the room.

At least he knew now why he was here. The Usurper was a ball of conflicting emotions, anxieties, and insecurities. Presented with a straightforward physical attack, he would respond with all the celerity and authority of an imperfect male who’d learned to survive among his more violent and stronger brethren. He’d spent his life figuring out how to win such contests of strength, or out-maneuver his opponents so that they died in some other way, the way he had apparently done with the Emperor.

But without the clarifying influence of a purely physical attack... allowed to simmer in his own insecurities, perhaps abetted by the right comment at the right time....

Jahir didn’t want to be here. If he’d had any choice at all, he would have preferred to fight this war at his cousin’s side, to use his talents in concert with Lisinthir’s and see their enemies laid low on a battlefield where there were no ambiguities. But he was not with Lisinthir. He was here, alone, on the Chatcaavan throneworld... with a Chatcaavan male who was perfectly positioned to crumble if someone undermined his psyche. A Chatcaavan male who was in charge of the entire Empire, and the war it was preparing to undertake against the Alliance.

In no universe should he be contemplating what he was contemplating now. He had sworn oaths, not just to those who’d licensed him to serve the health of his clients, but as an Eldritch to God and Lady, to serve life. And yet, being here, now….

This was a fight a therapist could win, if the Usurper would let him start it… and if he was willing to use the tools of a healer to destroy.

God and Lady, Jahir prayed. Help me now.

If he’d lived through a worse moment in his life, Vasiht’h couldn’t remember it, and he’d lived through Jahir almost dying from wet-induced coronaries; being trapped in a storm he was sure was going to kill him; and of course all the hateful events on the Quicklance where they’d almost died—again. But being trapped in a Chatcaavan hold destined for someone’s harem, surrounded by the oppressive misery of his fellow captives, and being steadily carried away from the person he loved most in all the worlds....

His breathing was growing shaky. He pressed his palms together and made an abortive attempt to pray, but he couldn’t concentrate. The strength of his headache was receding quickly because Jahir was growing farther away and the mindline was attenuating with that distance. He didn’t want to be getting clearer-headed. He didn’t want to be here. This was not how this was supposed to be happening, and Goddess be damned!

Vasiht’h gasped in and pressed a hand to his mouth. The tears that spilled then... he let them fall, and he wept softly into his cupped palms.

I’m sorry, he told Her. I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean that. I’m just so scared!

Nothing. But not the nothing he’d experienced on the Quicklance, the emptiness that had felt like the breath of the Goddess withdrawn. This was a patient silence. Which had to be a sign, didn’t it? Vasiht’h wiped his eyes with the butt of his palm and looked around the cargo hold. Even if it wasn’t… he was a therapist, and there were people here who needed help. The least he could do was make the attempt.

So that was what he did, as best he could. He was no priest to offer the sort of counsel that most of the prisoners needed, and his own faith in the Goddess, while stone-steady, had grown complicated with his understanding that sometimes Her aims were larger than any one person’s needs. But a shoulder to cry on, and a listening ear… those things he had practiced all his life, and he put them to use in the hope of doing at least some good. And, to be honest, to distract himself from how miserable he was himself, and how frightened. How long he spent at that, he didn’t know; he slept several times, but didn’t know for how long, and his metronomic digestion might have given him a clue how long it had been between meals, but it failed him with anxiety robbing him of his appetite. But finally the hum under his paws stopped and the Chatcaava came for them.

He thought about fighting them until one of the passengers tried and was shot for his troubles. Not dead, either; he was trussed and hauled off, none-too-gently, with the other captives. Nothing in Vasiht’h’s experience suggested the Chatcaava liked to shoot people when they could physically engage them, so their willingness to do so had to indicate something. What, he didn’t know, and continued not to know when he and the others were herded over a series of Pads and onto a new ship. This one had corridors Vasiht’h recognized at least, not the weirdly cramped ones common to Chatcaavan vessels. And the people awaiting them on the other side weren’t dragons.

Of course, that left only one possibility. Had he and Jahir saved them from pirate furriers, only to be delivered back to them by the Chatcaava?

They were sorted by these new people, who were talking with the Chatcaava—unfortunately in the dragons’ language, not anything he could understand—and Vasiht’h found himself alone, being harried to a door. It opened for him, they shoved him in, and it locked behind him with a chime all the more ominous for its cheery similarity to every piece of technology he’d ever used in a kinder time and place.

Why had they separated him? What were they planning to do with them? Were they furriers or just common variety slavers? And where were they being taken?

The rustle behind him warned him he wasn’t alone. He turned on his paws and sat back, startled, at the woman who was facing him, sitting on the floor with her hands folded on her lap.

“I know you,” he gasped.

The Slave Queen of the Chatcaava lifted her face, furrowed her brow.