Blood Challenge

TWENTY-NINE

LAUGHTER is not musical. Music is, by definition, an art form; real laughter is artless, unconstructed. Nor does laughter have the musical quality of some natural sounds—the rhythmic wash of waves, the patter of rain, or the hoot of an owl. It’s contagious and appealing, but it’s not music.

When Rule wheeled Lily into the great room, Arjenie was laughing, her head tipped back as if to open her throat better to let the laughter out. And it sounded musical.

Lily had noticed that before. Even over the phone, Arjenie’s laugh had made Lily think of clichés about bells. She just hadn’t associated it with the sidhe. Why would she? Sure, like a lot of six-graders, she’d been forced to memorize that stupid poem by Keats or Shelley or someone with the famous lines about elven laughter:

… a quiet music haunts my sleep

nor rain, nor wind, nor night, were night to speak—

yet a crescent moon, or a stag mid-leap

a chuckle of clouds, the converse of blades

recall the laughter of the elven maids.

Huh. She actually remembered that bit. Point to Mrs. Mc-Cutcheon. The thing was, she’d never associated the poem with anything real, maybe because she’d never heard an elf laugh.

Only it turned out she had, and hadn’t known it.

Isen and Nettie were at the rear of the room, seated on one of the big couches. Arjenie was curled up in an armchair near it. Isen rose when he saw her. “Lily.” He was delighted. “You’re feeling better.”

“And you’re in the damn wheelchair,” Nettie said, amused. “Good for you.” She stood, too.

Lily grimaced. “Rule persuaded me that was a better thank-you than flowers. Whatever you did this last time, it seems to have worked.”

“I put you in sleep, that’s all.” Nettie came to them and crouched. “That’s all I can do with you. Your Gift doesn’t let me in.” She took Lily’s hand, turned it up, and laid her fingers on the pulse at the wrist.

Lily understood why Nettie couldn’t heal her directly the way she could one of the lupi. Lily’s Gift blocked magic, period—even the good sort. What she didn’t understand was why Nettie could put her in sleep, or how that worked. Nettie said in sleep let her body do its own healing, only faster and more fully than it could on its own. This had something to do with the difference between magical and spiritual energies. According to Nettie, the “in sleep” trick was a spiritual practice, not a magical one, so it wasn’t blocked by Lily’s Gift. That’s also why Lily had to give permission before Nettie put her in sleep.

Lily could repeat this explanation. She knew from experience it was true—spiritual energy did affect her. She just had no idea what that meant.

“Good news,” Nettie said, releasing Lily’s hand. “You’re alive.”

“Always nice to have a hunch confirmed. Can I get out of the chair now?”

“No.” Nettie patted her shoulder. “But if you’re good, I’ll give you a cookie.”

“You’re enjoying this way too much.”

Nettie had a lovely smile when she used it. “I take my moments where I find them. You should be glad I’m not insisting on bed rest.”

Lily shuddered. “Oh, I am. Trust me.”

Cynna, Cullen, and Benedict were sitting around the patio-sized dining table at the other end of the room. It was getting louder down there. “… no friggin’ way you can equate the Etruscan kah to the Raetic ktah!” Cullen said. “The similarity of sound has nothing to do with their runic function, which you ought to—”

“And you,” Cynna said, pushing to her feet, “have a sadly simplistic grasp of runic magic. Plus you don’t listen. I didn’t say they were identical. I said the kah could be replaced by the ktah in that particular spell to increase congruity. Clearly you’d have to rework the placement.”

“Placement.” Cullen’s brows snapped together. He looked down at the table, muttering under his breath, and began sketching with one finger … a finger that left a glowing line behind. “Right. Higher, you mean? In the line invoking Air?”

“You’re the one who can see magic. You figure it out.” The words were curt. The look on Cynna’s face was fond, amused. She scrubbed a hand from the base of Cullen’s skull to the crown, making his hair stand up.

“Hey!” He looked up, grinned, and grabbed her hand, then tickled her palm with one finger. Lily couldn’t hear his murmured words, but she saw the wicked look he gave his wife.

She grinned back. “Later, you romantic fool.” She withdrew her hand and started toward the rest of them. “Hey, Lily. You look like crap.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“It’s almost like you’d been shot and then operated on and then insisted on flying across the country.”

Cynna was tall and buff, with strong shoulders, shapely arms, and long, muscular legs that Lily envied. She was also stacked—at least, Lily assumed that somewhere beneath the shapeless dress and mound of nearly due baby Cynna’s usual shape lay waiting to reassert itself. Her blond hair used to be short and spiky. It was still short, but lately she’d been leaving off the gel and letting it frame her face more softly. That face, like much of her body, was decorated by lacy whorls and patterns drawn in spiderweb-thin ink.

Well, not exactly ink. Cynna wore her magic on her skin. Beneath that filigree, though, she looked pale and tired.

“You don’t look full of vigor and vim yourself,” Lily said when Cynna reached her. “You okay?”

Cynna snorted as she bent to give Lily a hug. “I’m pregnant, for God’s sake, not ill.”

“Grouchy, too.” Lily hugged back quickly so Cynna could straighten. It wasn’t easy for her to bend these days. “But I was thinking about the memories, not your pregnancy. You’ve been … what’s the right word? Assimilating or absorbing them awfully quickly.”

“Oh.” Cynna grimaced. “That. I’m … this was the last batch from the early days, you see. The Great War and just after. Those are really important memories, and really awful.”

“A lot of death,” Rule said quietly.

Cynna nodded, a crease between her brows, her eyes unfocused. As if she still saw something terrible that had happened three thousand years ago, though from what Lily understood, the memories were supposed to be packed away somehow.

“That’s the last of them until after the little rider makes his appearance,” Cullen said firmly, coming up behind Cynna and slipping an arm around what used to be her waist. “Cynna’s got one hell of a good elevator—”

“She what?”

“It’s symbolism for how I store the memories,” Cynna explained.

“But she has to live the memories before she can put them away, which leaves her exhausted and heartsore. She needs distraction, which you have thoughtfully supplied with your mind-reading trick.”

Lily frowned. “It was not mind-reading. I’m no telepath.”

“Whatever.” He waved that aside. “Admittedly, you probably couldn’t have done it if Arjenie weren’t a broadcaster.”

“Is that what that was—broadcasting?” Lily looked over at Arjenie, who’d been oddly silent. Lily didn’t know her well, but silent wasn’t an adjective she associated with Arjenie. “It felt like you’d turned the volume up to sonic boom.”

Arjenie spread her hands apologetically. “The broadcasting happens all the time, whether I want it to or not, but normally it doesn’t matter. The extra boost—I thought I was supposed to do that. Of course, I also thought the only person who could hear me was Eledan.”

“I’m getting this scattershot,” Lily said, and looked at Benedict, who still sat at the table. He was good with reports. “Can you give me a summary?”

For some reason that made Arjenie giggle.

NETTIE didn’t join them for the summarizing. She was tired and wanted her bed, she said, and Lily didn’t need her, so she’d head home. Since the combination clinic and cottage where she lived was only a mile away, she left on foot.

Everyone else gathered at the table. Lily decided she liked it there. With everyone sitting, she could almost forget what kind of chair she sat in. Not about her arm, though. She couldn’t make notes left-handed. It bugged her intensely.

It was interesting to see how everyone grouped themselves. Isen sat at the head of the table. The chair to his right was for Rule, who’d gone to the kitchen to make coffee. Lily’s chair was wheeled into place next to his. Isen motioned for Cynna—the Rhej’s apprentice had high status—to take the spot on his left. Cullen sat next to Cynna, of course, and Arjenie took the seat on his left. Benedict sat next to Arjenie, leaving Lily and Rule alone on their side of the table.

What does Arjenie know? Lily wondered. Not just about those potions and Robert Friar, but about why Benedict stayed close to her, why he kept watching her. Did she know about the mate bond? Lily was pretty sure she didn’t. But they were all speaking openly in front of Arjenie, as if she were already clan, and trusted.

Was that wise? Something—someone—had bound her. They were assuming it was her father, but they didn’t know that, did they? Lily tapped her fingers on the table, thinking.

“Ready?” Benedict said.

“Go for it.” Rule would be able to hear just fine from the kitchen.

“All right. Arjenie possesses half of an ability the sidhe call by a word that translates as kinspeech. Though it is mind-to-mind contact, they don’t consider it mindspeech because of its limitations. Kinspeech requires physical contact and occurs only between close kin, most often parent and child. It’s common among middle sidhe; less common but not unusual in low sidhe. Her father can both send and receive. Arjenie can only send, like a radio transmitter without a receiver.”

Lily glanced at the woman who’d been her favorite researcher at the Bureau. She was watching Benedict as closely as if she’d never heard any of this before. She must have felt Lily’s eyes on her, because she turned a wry smile on Lily. “It took me thirty minutes to say that. I don’t know how to boil things down.”

“It’s a learned talent,” Lily said. “Is that true for this kinspeech?”

She shook her head, but it was Benedict who answered. “No, it’s an innate ability. Though she did have to learn how to put more power behind her thoughts for her father to ‘hear’ them.”

“He wanted her to yell like that?” Lily asked, startled.

“Essentially, yes. When she realized you were picking up her thoughts she boosted the output, as she’d been taught. This was apparently too much power for the form of mindspeech you use.”

“No kidding,” she said dryly.

“I didn’t know,” Arjenie said earnestly. “I had no idea it would hurt you.”

“No, you couldn’t have, could you? Why didn’t you mention this ability?”

She shrugged. “I never think about it. I mean, the only time I ever experienced it was when Eledan visited me years and years ago, and I didn’t really experience anything then. He did, because when he touched me he could hear me, just a little, so he taught me how to turn up the volume. But I’ve never heard anyone’s thoughts, and as far as I knew Eledan was the only person in all the realms who could hear mine. Well, except for dragons, but that wouldn’t be me doing it. That would be them.”

“If you … ah.” Lily broke off with a smile.

Rule entered bearing a thermos-style pot and a fistful of mugs. He set the mugs down and poured one of them full of hot, fragrant coffee and set it in front of Lily.

“Thanks.” She grabbed the mug and inhaled the scented steam, then sipped, gesturing for Benedict to continue.

He did. “The first question, obviously, is why you were able to receive what Arjenie broadcast. Clearly it has to do with your potential for mindspeech. Beyond that, our various experts disagree—though they do all believe that kinspeech must require a good deal more power than the dragon form of mindspeech you’ve inherited.”

“You’ve explained to her that I can’t actually use mindspeech yet?”

“Several people explained,” he said dryly. “Frequently all at the same time, on different topics. But yes, that was touched on. The second question is whether and how you can repeat the event or connection. The third question is whether it would be safe to do so.”

Lily glanced at Rule, who’d poured his own cup and was sipping it. His eyes met hers over the rim of the mug. They were about the same color as the coffee he sipped. About that revealing, too. “It didn’t hurt until Arjenie turned the power up. I don’t see a problem.”

Cullen leaned forward. “If kinspeech draws on a fundamentally different form of—”

“Cullen,” Isen said mildly.

Cullen scowled but fell silent. Benedict continued. “There are three clear differences between the two forms of mental contact. One is, as I said, the amount of power involved. The other two involve the way contact is achieved. Kinspeech requires physical contact, but doesn’t require training. With mindspeech, the requirements are reversed. Or so we’ve assumed?” He raised his brows.

“You assumed right,” Lily said. “Sam won’t tell me much because, according to him, I’d try to fit my experience into his words. Apparently that would be bad. But yeah, while the ability to use mindspeech is inherited, actually using it has to be learned.” Slowly. Very slowly.

Benedict nodded. “Seabourne believes this means that mindspeech doesn’t function like a Gift, but kinspeech does.”

“We don’t know that,” Cynna muttered.

Benedict slid her an opaque glance. “We’ve arrived at a point of disagreement. Seabourne believes the two forms of mental speech may be fundamentally different—enough so that you risk being harmed when you attempt to ‘listen’ to Arjenie. Using the radio analogy, he says the frequencies may be so different that kinspeech could damage you. That, in fact, you may have already sustained damage, and that’s why you couldn’t repeat the experience. Cynna disagrees. She believes the two are essentially the same, but kinspeech is far less efficient, thus requiring more power and the added boost of physical contact. She thinks you unconsciously threw up a shield when Arjenie’s broadcast caused pain, and that’s why you weren’t able to ‘hear’ her anymore.”

“Huh.” Lily frowned at her mug and took another sip.

“They agree more than they disagree,” Benedict said dryly, “but they disagree loudly. Because they do agree that both theories are possible, they’ve been attempting to modify a spell that would measure some aspect of kinspeech. I’m unclear on the details.”

“Not measure,” Cullen said. “Magnify. If Arjenie is continually broadcasting, she’s using power, though at a very low level. I’ve got a spell I call my magnifying glass. I use it to enhance the focus on faint or intricate components when I’m deconstructing a spell. We’re trying to modify it to work on a particular aspect of an innate ability—which is not simple. The section dealing with congruity alone has to be—”

“Not now,” Lily said firmly. “I take it you think that magnifying this, uh, aspect of an innate ability would tell you if it was safe for me to make that kind of contact with Arjenie again?”

“Not definitively, but if the energies involved look highly dissimilar, that would suggest a greater risk. If they look fairly similar, it suggests less risk.”

“Hmm.” She looked at Benedict. “Does Arjenie have an opinion?”

“Not on this. She feels she lacks sufficient data. She has never experienced mindspeech herself and knows only what little her father told her about kinspeech. “

“Okay.” The fingers on Lily’s right hand twitched. She wanted to jot things down. She settled for drumming the fingers of her other hand on the table. “Have you asked her about Dya again?

“She still can’t speak that name, or respond in any way to questions about him or her.”

“Her,” Lily said, then frowned. “I think. I’m not sure why I said that.” She glanced at Arjenie, who offered an apologetic smile.

Rule spoke for the first time since sitting down. “I’ll offer a summary of my own. If Cullen’s right, you shouldn’t try to open a channel with Arjenie. The danger is real. Unquantifiable because we don’t know enough, but too real to risk it. If Cynna’s right, there’s little danger in trying, though you may be blocked by the shield you unconsciously created.”

Lily looked at him. Did he feel what she did? Not just fear. She’d feared for him before. This was fear on steroids with the volume turned up to a scream, like Arjenie’s mental shout. Rule looked calm enough, but he was good at hiding fear. That had been a large part of his training. Wolves freak if they sense their leader is frightened.

She looked at the others. “The one thing—”

“Dumplings,” said a gravelly voice behind her. “Made ’em fresh. Soggy dumplings are no good. Also scones for everyone.” Carl came up beside Lily and set a steaming bowl in front of her. Wordlessly he added a large basket full of scones to the center of the table, then began pulling things out of his apron pockets—a napkin-wrapped set of silver-ware for Lily. Salt and pepper shakers. A jar of marmalade, and a small, lidded tub that might hold butter. Several butter knives. A roll of paper towels.

“You’re not to have wine, I’m told,” he said in his slow, grave way. “What do you want to drink?”

“Just some water. And maybe more coffee?”

“I’ve got water heating. The sprout here can make coffee when you’re ready. Or Isen. They make decent coffee. Not Benedict. He doesn’t. Ice?”

She blinked. Oh—he meant for her water. “Yes, please.”

“Your cat wanted chicken. Gave him some. He liked it.” With that he turned and stumped back to the kitchen.

Chicken apparently trumped guard duty. Not that Harry really guarded Toby. That was just Rule’s way of talking. Cats didn’t have that kind of instinct the way dogs did.

Arjenie leaned forward and whispered, “He’s very quiet, isn’t he?”

Isen smiled. “Carl speaks fluent math. None of us can carry on a conversation in his tongue, but he doesn’t hold it against us. Try one of the scones.”

The bowl in front of Lily smelled wonderful. Her stomach surprised her by rumbling. She was hungry. That shouldn’t come as a surprise this late in the day, but this was the first time she’d been really hungry since getting shot. She dug in.

The dumplings were a surprise, too. Lily had expected the heavy, greasy lumps of dough she associated with American-style dumplings, but Carl’s were different. Light and fluffy, slightly savory with herbs, they swam in a thickened sauce chunky with chicken and carrots.

Hunger and the sheer deliciousness of the meal held her attention at first. Arjenie asked Isen what kind of math Carl spoke and seemed to understand his answer, which was more than Lily could say. Interdimensional degeneracies? A quantum-isolated four-body system?

Isen was right. She didn’t speak Carl’s language. But he made incredible dumplings, and they were easy to eat with one hand. Maybe he’d planned it that way. She beamed at him when he returned to set a glass of ice water at her place. He answered with the usual nod, but the solemn creases of his face lifted briefly in what was nearly a smile.

“Good?” Rule said.

She gave him a smile, too. He gave her a scone.

It was comforting, this meal. Familiar. Cynna announced that the little rider was dancing on her poor, squished bladder and left the table, heading for the bathroom. Isen asked Cullen about the project he’d been working on, trying to create a cheaply replicable insulation against the rising levels of ambient magic. According to Rule, If Cullen could pull that off neither he nor Nokolai—who was funding his efforts—would ever have to worry about money again.

Everything was normal, safe, peaceful. Any one of them could be dead tomorrow.

Rule passed the little tub—which turned out to hold clotted cream, not butter—to Arjenie. She said something Lily didn’t catch, and he laughed.

Lily would risk herself for Rule in a heartbeat. He knew it. He’d do the same for her, and she knew that with sick certainty. But why? Why did that make her shaky and scared now? It never used to.

Death was a constant. It always had been, and Lily supposed her current hypersensitivity to that reality would ease in time, and she’d return to the normal human state of semi-blindness. God, she hoped so. But she was weird and shaky now, and it made her doubt her judgment. How did she decide what risks were justified?

Lily put down her spoon and sipped the ice water Carl had provided. It was cold, like her insides. I’ll be careful with myself, she wanted to tell Rule. I don’t want to scare you. I’ll be careful for your sake.

How careful? What did she owe him in that way? Why had that always been obvious before?

Because of her job. Understanding hit, as clear and icy as the water. She’d known what risks were justified because she knew what her job required of her. Rule had the same sort of guidance. He knew what was required of him as Lu Nuncio to Nokolai, as Rho to Leidolf. They each understood duty. But whatever she was doing now, it wasn’t about the job. As far as the Bureau was concerned, she had no investigation. She was on sick leave.

But they had to find out what Arjenie knew. Didn’t they?

Lily ate slowly and thought about duty, about Robert Friar, mindspeech, mysterious potions, Arjenie Fox, and three attacks. One by bullet. One by magic. One by madness.