The Seeds of Dissolution (Dissolution Cycle Book 1) Page 3

  Rilan pushed past him and he stepped aside, anticipating how she would move even so long past the end of their travels together. The bell at the end of her braid jingled as she walked and she tugged at the waistline of her white dress looking, as always, as if she would rather tear it off. That she wore it meant she had been on her way to a Council meeting when he caught her—fortunate timing. Though they had spoken little in the last few cycles, Rilan was his one instance of leverage with the Council, when the other councilmembers thought his research was so much eggshell leavings. What he would give to have the Council of his youth back.

  In any case, this boy could influence his next meeting—turn the Council from their obsession with the Aridori to actual threats, like the Drains.

  “This is the new majus, Ori?” Rilan asked, breaking into his reverie. “You left him like this?” The boy looked up at the sound, sniffing. His eyes widened a little and Origon let the Nether interpret for him. Surprise, and maybe fear. It was hard to guess at Methiemum expressions without the aid of the Nether, as their topfeathers could not signal any subtle emotion.

  “He said he would be fine on his own for a little time. I believed him.” Really, there were more pressing matters, like his investigation into the Drains.

  “I’m Councilor Ayama,” Rilan said, ignoring Origon and squatting down in the stinking alley. She pulled her dress away from a suspiciously dark puddle. “What’s your name? Where are you from?”

  The boy wiped at his eyes, and took in a deep breath. He still had a death-grip on that pocketwatch.

  “I already told him,” he pointed up to Origon. “I’m from Earth. My name’s Sam. Sam van Oen.” Ah yes. That was his name.

  “I’m not familiar with that place,” Rilan said. “I can get a globe of Methiem—” Origon sighed. The boy was waving his hands again. He was going to get riled up, as before.

  “I’m not from Meth…Methiem,” Sam said, and Origon saw his nostrils flare, sucking in air too fast. “I’m from Earth. My aunt was just—” He swallowed. “There was this cold that took all the power and energy away.” Rilan peered closer.

  “This is what he told you?” she asked Origon, but the boy nodded.

  “He has seen a Drain,” Origon answered, “much as I did. You know what happened with the first.” Every moment they debated meant it would be harder to study the phenomenon.

  Origon’s nails dig into his palms, and he carefully kept his crest neutral. The abomination he’d encountered after the crash on Methiem’s moon loomed in his mind. So much for the Methiemum’s first spaceflight. Not only had piloting the craft deprived him of much of his song, but the off-white, fleshy egg that almost killed him had absorbed the material of the space capsule, changing the crash site so fundamentally that making a new portal to the moon was all but impossible. He still dreamed about it, and now his song wavered like a simple tune, stripped of many of its notes and much of its complexity.

  “You claimed the Symphony cannot touch the voids,” Rilan said, twisting back to him. “The Symphony’s music winds through everything.”

  “As you say.” Now Origon let his crest flatten in disbelief. “Yet both I and the space capsule’s crew barely escaped through my portal.”

  “Space ships?” This at least seemed to catch the boy’s attention. “Is that where all the aliens come from?”

  “Of course not,” Origon started, but Rilan hushed him.

  “We travel between our homeworlds via portals the maji control. The capsule Ori piloted was an experiment.” She waved a hand vaguely. “One that did not go as planned, because of Ori’s void. Did you see the launch of the shuttle? Were you in the crowd on Methiem?”

  The boy—young man, really—only shook his head. Origon frowned. They had to get him out of this dirty back alley, somewhere Origon could learn more about the Drains, and where Sam was from.

  “Are you well enough to come with us?” he asked.

  Sam looked past them, to the open end of the alley, and shivered. His eyes went back to Origon’s face. “The same thing happened to you? You know what I went through. Why didn’t you tell me?”

  Origon stared back. He had said as much, had he not? Or at least mentioned something of it. Why else would he be so interested in the Drains? Was the young man’s brain addled? If so, Origon might need a softer approach to get the information from him.

  “Up now.” Rilan helped pull Sam to his feet, then stepped back so the three of them were in a triangle, looking up slightly to meet his gaze. “You still haven’t told me where exactly you’re from.”

  Sam took in a deep, shuddering breath. “Where I come from, there are no aliens, and we call ourselves humans, not Meth—Methiemum.” He paused. “And there are no maji. The only symphonies we have are the ones that orchestras play. How does a symphony make colors?”

  Origon exchanged a look with Rilan. Many non maji didn’t understand what the maji did, and if Sam was new to the Great Assembly of Species, then perhaps more explanation was needed, despite the extra time it would take. He seemed calmer now he was conversing.

  “The Grand Symphony underlies everything,” Rilan said. “It is the music that writes the universe’s existence, ever flowing and changing. Maji are those who can hear some aspect of the Grand Symphony.”

  “Then, a majus can use the notes defining their own experiences to change the music they hear,” Origon continued. “As a lit candle produces not just light, but heat, so the changes produce colors, along with the physical or mental effect, based on the aspect of the Grand Symphony that was being adjusted.” Origon tapped his robe. “I am of the Houses of Communication and Power, and my strength lies in using air and heat in combination.”

  He let the Symphony of Communication fill him. Subtle cadenzas representing the buzz of the crowds outside the alley warred against the smooth chords of the wind and pressure differentials. He grasped a few of the notes that made up his song—the reflection of his collected experiences—and used them to alter a chord progression, bringing the notes to a lower register, and speeding the tempo. Yellow spiraled out from his hand as a sharp breeze blew away the smell of the alley. Sam blinked in surprise, but again, his eyes followed the color. He was definitely majus potential.

  Origon took his notes back and the breeze died. He spread fingers toward his friend. “Councilor Ayama is of the House of Healing, though her specialty is mental rather than biological.”

  “I’m a psychologist,” Rilan said. Origon grunted. He had just said that.

  “I’m studying ethics, and I’m going to go into law,” Sam said. “Does your job use magic?” Origon winced at the word. He fluffed his crest and started to answer, but Rilan got there first.

  “In…a sense,” she said. “Though it isn’t magic. We can change the tempo and notes of the Grand Symphony underlying the universe, but only of that aspect we can hear. I hear the Symphony of Healing, and so belong to the House of Healing, but any member of any house may pursue a livelihood in whatever they wish.”

  Sam raised his head a little, holding his watch tight. “Sounds like magic to me.” Rilan rolled her eyes. At least Origon wasn’t the only impatient one.

  “Do you have a way to be helping him?” Origon glanced around the wooden alley. His feathers would mold if he stayed here any longer. “At least to get us somewhere with more resources?” Origon stroked his moustache. An idea was forming.

  Rilan held out a hand to Sam again. “Ori is correct. We must get you out of here. I can use my song to listen to yours, if that’s acceptable. The House of Healing will enable me to hear what part of your mental makeup does, well, this to you.” She gestured at Sam, backed into a dark corner.

  Origon let his crest ruffle as the young man retreated even further. This would take all day. He had to be stable, or at least calm, if Origon were to get information about his homeworld, assuming it was not Methiem.

  Then Sam came forward, breathing fast, knuckles white arou
nd his watch. “You can see why I have problems with new places? With crowds? Can you make it go away?”

  Rilan shook her head. “Only you can do that, and likely it will never go away completely. You can learn to cope with it, however. I may be able to help you.” Her hand was still extended.

  Sam looked to the alley mouth again, bit his lip, then took another small step away from the wood planks. “It’s not that I don’t like people. I do.” Origon let the Nether translate Sam’s wide eyes and mouth screwed to one side. Like a crest flattened and swept in a curve. “I’d like to meet more people without being afraid.” He swallowed, took yet another step. “Okay, let’s try.”

  Rilan nodded. “Hold still a moment.” She shifted forward to touch fingers to the young man’s forehead. White and olive blossomed around her hand, shifting into a net that buzzed around Sam’s dark hair. Origon could see his eyes tracking the colors, hands shaking slightly by his sides.

  “Yes, I can hear the notes describing an overload on neural pathways dealing with the fight and flight response.” Rilan’s foot tapped in time with something Origon couldn’t hear. “Crowds, new places, large areas are the worst?” Sam gulped a breath and nodded, but he must have remembered what happened before. He didn’t jerk away.

  “You can see—hear all that?” Sam asked Rilan.

  “As I said, I’m a psychologist.” The fingers of Rilan’s other hand were weaving in a complicated rhythm, as though she directed a choir. “I use my song to help me in my job. My house lets me hear the aspect of the Grand Symphony that defines your brain, among other things.”

  “Oh,” Sam said. Origon smiled as he watched his friend work, his crest relaxing. Once, many cycles ago, she had to talk a Lobath child down from where he had gotten stuck on the top of a giant rotting conk fungus—one the Lobath used for housing materials. Origon considered the similarities.

  Rilan twisted to him. “He is Methiemum,” she confirmed, but her brows drew down. She ran a hand down her long braid, pulling it over her shoulder.

  “But?” Origon prompted. He didn’t need another impediment. They had been in this alley long enough.

  “There are differences in his mental makeup. He’s certainly not one of the other species—his psychology is like a Methiemum raised on a different homeworld.” She paused.

  “I was raised on a different homeworld—um—on Earth,” Sam insisted, behind her.

  Rilan shifted her stance, as if she realized the baby bird she found was in actuality a young nesting raptor. “Or hiding what you are.” She passed two fingers in front of her eyes once, twice, in quick succession, in the old gesture to reveal a hidden Aridori.

  Origon stared at her, his crest slowly tightening, drawing his skin up. “Do not tell me you are now believing the rotten eggs the Council is pushing? Next you will be telling me the Aridori will climb through my window at night and replace me. You have more sense than that.”

  She dropped her hand, looking only a little guilty. “That’s all the Council is discussing today, Ori. It’s all they can think about. There are eyewitness accounts coming in from all over the Nether.” She looked up, judging the quality of the light, then quickly back, as if Sam would have run off in that time. “In fact, I need to get back very soon.” She fixed Origon with a glare. “In the Imperium, in Gloomlight, even in the farming communities and Poler, people are scared the Aridori are coming back. There have been two reported murders this month—someone claiming their spouse had been replaced by an impostor.”

  Origon watched his old student, his old companion. Her face showed more confusion than conviction. He looked to the young man, who was obviously no threat. “Was there any proof these murderers were not simply capitalizing on panic? They are seeing what? Monsters change shape before their eyes, or shadows in the grain fields? What solid evidence is included? Has anyone brought in an Aridori?”

  “Well, no,” Rilan admitted. She straightened, chin up. “Though I wouldn’t be surprised if someone did. We’ve had innocent citizens in the Imperium hassled by over-zealous do-gooders, thinking they’ve single-handedly stopped the downfall of the Great Assembly.”

  “Excuse me.” They both looked to Sam, and he swallowed. However, his eyes were alight, as if he saw where they were for the first time. “What’s an Aridori, and what does it have to do with me?”

  Maybe there was fire in this new majus after all. “They are but a child’s scare-tale,” Origon said.

  Rilan waved a hand at him. “You must admit there is truth to the tales. The Aridori war did happen.” She shifted just out of the young man’s reach.

  “They fought a war with you?” Sam asked.

  “It was to be long enough ago no one remembers anything about it,” Origon told him. He could at least explain the tales rather than accusing Sam of acting in one. The sooner they got past this distraction, the sooner they could study something real, like the Drains. “The Aridori disappeared after the war was over, so all the stories say, with the last stragglers hunted down by groups of soldiers. The horror tales say they could look like anything, be anyone. For all we know the species fought each other over phantoms.”

  “‘Never trust what an Aridori says or does,’” Rilan said in a sing-song voice, and Origon let his crest flatten again, cocking an eyebrow. Sam was scared enough as it was. “‘Slip through a crack like an Aridori.’ ‘If you lie to the maji, an Aridori will take your place in the night.’”

  Sam was looking between them. “So. Do these Aridori exist, or not?”

  “No,” Origon said. There were serious problems without imagining a monster behind every door.

  “Yes,” Rilan said. Then she bobbed her head sideways, lips pursed. “And no. I do believe they exist.” She flicked a glance up at Origon. “Or did. But, they are no longer considered one of the ten species of the Great Assembly.”

  “You think I might be one of them?” Sam asked, his voice small.

  Origon barked a laugh. “If you are, boy, then you are an actor worthy of the ancestor’s praise.”

  “‘Never trust what an Aridori says or does,’” Rilan muttered, but Origon stared her down. She wiped a hand down her face. “No. I don’t think you are an Aridori. The Council’s fears are getting to me.” Tension bled from her.

  “Then if we are convinced he has not come to kill us all, can we be leaving this alley?” Origon asked

  “We need to get him to the Council,” Rilan said.

  “I am having a better idea.” Origon told her. He tapped the shoulder of her white dress with one finger. “You are needing to get to the Council. I will take Sam to the House of Communication and see if we can locate his homeworld. Then we will be coming to the Council.” The Drain on the Methiemum moon Ksupara was inaccessible until they sent another capsule, and he was not losing another chance.

  “Do you think you can walk with us now?” Rilan asked Sam. “Ori is correct. I need to get back to the Council.”

  The young man eyed the entrance to the alley again, and Origon saw his breathing speed up. That ancestors-cursed watch came back out. Origon moved to block the view. They didn’t have time for this, and he glared at Rilan. “If you are to be convinced he is not some ancient evil, can you please do something for him?”

  Rilan took in a breath, but she also glanced up again, judging the time. “There is one thing I can do, but it is only temporary, and will leave you feeling,” she waggled a hand, “off.”

  Sam looked to her, and away from the alley entrance. “Like anxiety medication? I’ve taken that before, when I had to. I didn’t like it.”

  Origon’s friend frowned. “The medical ward attached to the House of Healing has been experimenting with such things. They are common, where you come from?”

  Sam nodded.

  “Hm. I mean to do this with my song, though it will be a permanent use of my notes.” Rilan rubbed her chin. “A physical form of this medication would save much effort from maji of the Hous
e of Healing.”

  “Permanent?” Sam asked.

  “Not to you,” Rilan answered. “A permanent change to the Symphony means I do not get that portion of my song, my being, back. The change is non-reversible.”

  “If I were to add heat somewhere with the House of Power,” Origon explained, “I could later reverse the change to be recouping my song, as I was doing with the breeze you felt.”

  Except, in the space capsule, he had spent hours spending his song like spare Nether glass to keep them from crashing.

  “This change—to the Symphony—would act like anxiety meds?” Sam dry washed his hands.

  “I think so,” Rilan said. “I can block that phrase of music for a short time, lessening your fear of crowds and spaces, but it is artificial, and never as good as working through the issue—” she broke off to Sam’s furious nodding.

  “Do it,” he said, then pointed to Origon. “Like he says, I have to get out of here. When I’m somewhere safe I can work through it on my own.”

  Rilan nodded. “Hold still.” She cocked her head, listening for several seconds, then placed both hands on Sam’s head. They blazed white and olive, and the color made an organic-looking map once again, pulsing in time to something Origon couldn’t hear. This time the net slid into the young man’s flesh and disappeared. Rilan removed her hands and took a deep breath in, tilting her head side to side as if a headache was imminent. Sam relaxed, and sighed. He lowered his watch. His eyes were slightly unfocused.

  “I’ve silenced the music of several of your mental connections,” Rilan told Sam. “It is not the best method, but it should work for the moment.” Origon pushed down his crest. Rilan giving up her notes sent his memory spinning back to piloting the capsule. She looked up to him, as if she knew what he was thinking. “The cost is small enough. I’ve done it before.”