

### No Turning Back

Descendants of Ancients:

Volume 1

by Sharon T. Rose

Smashwords Edition

This work is copyright 2011 Sharon T. Rose and is licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License. To view a copy of this license, visit Creative Commons or send a letter to Creative Commons, 171 Second Street, Suite 300, San Francisco, California, 94105, USA

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each reader. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Cover photo used in compliance with Creative Commons and credited to Rahim Sonawalla

To the One who chose to graft me into His family.

Prologue

Casserion of Ivrithan was a beautiful city. Founded twenty leagues up the Trivine River from the shores of the Salome Sea, it boasted a major port, a brand-new Rail-Road, and electrical lighting in all of the business sector. Even most of the housing districts now had gas lamps and indoor plumbing. The poorest sectors, of course, claimed no such luxuries, but they were still cleaner and neater than, say, the cities ruled by Shon Hondle, the lord of Amalrich.

There were many parks in Casserion, each kept trimmed, mowed, and planted by both city agronomists and those who lived near them. Children often played there under the supervision of nannies, governesses, and occasionally parents. Young lovers strolled along, shyly holding hands as gentle breezes stirred their clothes the way whispered words stirred their hearts. Old men and women sat on the sunny benches, watching beneficially over all.

Modern buildings had begun to rise over the time-grayed structures, casting long shadows both morning and night. Horse-drawn carriages shared the cobble-paved roadways with newer, noisier electrical carriages. Drivers change little, even with progress, and there was as much clamor for right-of-way as one could expect anywhere. The commodities exchange building just off the wharf hummed with activity; pallets of goods moved on and off ships, barges, and caravans. The securities exchange building in the heart of the city was louder, with bells, chimes, and frantic men rushing about with vital scraps of paper.

Out on the streets, grocer's boys called gaily to passers-by, proclaiming their wares. Cloth merchants and tailors dressed men, women, and children in fine fashion while the rag-booths provided serviceable garments to the working class. The pie shop stood next to the butchery, each trying to under-bid the other for the coin-conscious customers' favor. An elegant lady could exit from a fashionable electrical carriage and pass a businessman on the side-walk. He could turn the corner and dodge both a vagrant in an old army coat and cap and a line of giggling, round-faced school children with their teacher.

On the western hill was the great University, the cathedral of learning that drew students from around the world, even so far away as Tuvaul and Nieun, those poor countries on the other side of the oceans. Near the very heart of the Casserion was the great Sanctuary Dome, the largest worship hall of the Sacerdotists, who believed in serving the community and helping the poor.

Casserion was a growing, thriving, and vibrant city with much to offer anyone who walked her streets.

And like the rest of the planet Alluvia, it was also a war zone.

### Chapter 1

The impact blows half the building out, blasting debris half a league into the air to fall as missiles on the screaming populace. Dust washes into the street, inflicting tears and coughing on scrambling by-standers.

Shapes flash through the haze, moving too quickly to track. Another explosion; this one takes out an entire grocery, dropping the upper floors of the building to the street. The strange humming that precedes the blasts brings cries of fear to the lips of many caught between the fighters.

The huge shadow that flashes past the fine lady and her e-car raises a gust that rips her hat from her head; she screams in terror. The smaller shape that dashes past the school children shoves them so roughly to the pavement that two of them will never rise again. A hum, a blast, an explosion of impact. Amid the screams of fear are screams of rage. Another hum, the whistling of a small object flying through the air. A tiny impact followed by a shriek of hatred.

Two more blasts without warning, crashing into the cobbled pavement near the last glimpse of the large figure. Bricks and mortar rain down on abandoned carriages, horses, and bodies. Feet pound the pavement erratically. Harsh breathing is now the primary sound. A small breeze lifts a corner of the dusty shroud on the now-quiet street. A hint of movement; more humming, more blasts. The breaths come now in pained gasps.

Another quiet whistle through the air ends in another tiny impact. Another scream rings out, this time in despair. The thud of body on pavement follows, then come sounds of weak movement.

The breeze, bolder now, parts the curtain of destruction, revealing both the standing and the fallen. The man on the ground still struggles, his face twisted in pain and desperation. He tries to rise, tries to grasp his chest, tries to get away from the approaching figure.

He glares up at the inhuman figure towering over him and spits.

"I know you, Alleathon Naichen. You will never win!"

Alleathon Naichen says nothing. He lifts a small, round object and flings it at his foe. The man flinches, unable to dodge. The metal ball strikes his head, and he screams again. He keeps screaming as the ball, fixed to his temple, begins glowing softly. After a moment, the scream fades to nothing as the man drops fully to the street. The ball rolls several paces away.

Alleathon reaches down to collect it. As he grasps it, movement erupts from behind a ruined carriage. His gaze snaps up, solid red eyes tracking. A second figure appears, a woman, glowing hands pressed to her chest, about to extend them outward. Humming fills the air. Alleathon shifts his weight, ready to leap.

Another figure bursts from hiding, plowing into the woman. She screams in rage, but the blast does not come. The small figure in its tattered coat slings the woman around, using the momentum of the charge to throw her into the alley-way just beyond. It follows her. A few more screams come from the woman. The last is one of terror.

### ~~~~

Alleathon Naichen stood slowly, gaze flicking between the now-silent alley-way and the man he'd overcome. Though in basic shape they were both human, the differences were marked. The unconscious man was of average height, average build, and average weight. He little differed from many of the men around him in the city.

The giant standing over him was very different from the men of Ivrithan, from any of the men of the whole world of Alluvia. Half again their height, he topped more than two and a half yards. He wore no clothing over his body, and his skin was hard and unmoving. He might have been wearing a form-fitted suit of armor, for his shell-like surface preserved his modesty and sharply defined his musculature. His breastbone protruded slightly in his chest, giving it an outward curve that ordinary men lacked.

While his face was clearly defined and well-built, it was slightly off-looking; something had been minutely changed without the permission of aesthetics. His eyes were large and deeply set, yet they were all one color, without white, iris, or pupil. That color was blood-red, which matched the swirls of pigment that streaked across his skin-armor, making undefined patters down his arms and legs.

His hands ended in long fingers with squared fingernails, yet his feet displayed no toes. He wore no boots, but one might imagine the skin-armor had fashioned them. His body was entirely hairless save for his thin, red eyebrows, which currently scrunched together across his forehead. He absently slipped the metal ball into the empty slot in the bandoleer slung across his torso.

As Alleathon considered, the citizens of Casserion began to emerge from hiding. Murmurs began, then louder calls, then cries of anguish. It was always the same.

"It's a Descendant!"

"Dam'd unnatural beast!"

"Hush; he just saved out lives!"

"And killed how many to do it?"

"You want to be a Drone, then?"

"He's naked!"

"Is it dead?"

"She's dead! Oh, God, she's dead!"

Yes. It was always the same.

Reaching a decision, Alleathon bent to grab the unconscious man, hefting him easily. Securing his hold of the man's waist, Alleathon walked toward the alley-way, senses alert for ambush. Sukkers generally weren't subtle, but caution was its own reward. Reaching the passage, he stopped, probing. Nothing. The woman and the coat-covered person were not in sight. He listened, opened his mouth slightly to help him smell.

So much dust! So much screaming from the street! It was hard to make anything out. Closing his pupil-less eyes, he reached into his blood, calling on his unique gift. After a brief pause, he could hear heartbeats. Dozens behind him, ranging from pounding to sluggish. The steady, weak pulse of the man under his arm. And one strong beat farther down the alley. Only one.

Reaching for his bandoleer, he pulled a small rectangular object from it and held it to his mouth. "Laillmen, Sonelion, Vyenthon, to my location. Bring a wagon."

Alleathon entered the alley-way, caution hand-in-hand with practiced confidence. Stashing the unconscious man out of view of the street, he moved forward, scanning each rubbish bin, each doorway, each brick. The beat grew louder but not faster. Strange; it was already fast. But not panicked. Quick, almost like an animal's. He paused again, taking another breath, gaze unfocused as he listened. There.

Up ahead, a single-story amid the three- and four-stories, a private patio on a roof. The heartbeat came from there. As he neared, he could smell the tang of blood. He could hear crunching and slurping. His mouth twisted slightly. He paused at the base of the building, listening. Someone ... or some _thing_ was eating.

He tensed his legs and leapt lightly onto the roof-patio.

The woman was dead. Very dead. The coated person was eating her. Alleathon was fiercely glad that his suited form had no gorge, for he surely would have heaved otherwise. There was blood everywhere. The attacker (a girl, he could now see) had ripped the woman apart and begun chewing on her bones. In fact, it looked as though the girl was only interested in the bones, since Alleathon could see large chunks of flesh scattered on the patio floor.

The girl had been engrossed in her task, but Alleathon's landing caught her attention. Her head snapped up, bone clenched in her teeth in macabre comedy, eyes wide and feral. Alleathon flinched inside at what he saw there; the child was mad! Her mouth opened, bone falling to the tiles with a clatter. She stared at him, eyes widening further, jaw working randomly. Then she threw herself forward onto her face. Her muffled voice rasped out at him in the Ivrithan language.

"Master Tesselëan! Came back! Long time, couldn't, came back! Hunting! Hunting! Tesselëans command hunt; Hunt!"

Dear Lord above; the girl was insane.

She shuddered suddenly, drawing in on herself. Then she looked up at Alleathon.

Alleathon recoiled instinctively; he couldn't help it. Her gaze was no longer mad; it was tortured.

"Please," she whispered in a normal voice, tears spilling over her thin cheeks, "Oh, please. Just kill me before it makes me kill again!"

She shuddered again, twisting slightly. Her eyes closed halfway, then opened. The madness was there again. "Hunt!" she cried again.

She jabbed a finger at the mutilated corpse. "Hunt! As commanded! Gontozenel dead! Gontozenel not fight again!" More shuddering, then sanity.

"Please, sir Descendant. I-- I think it's trying to tell you that you are its master, and that it's-- it's killing the Sukkers for you. That-- that it's been making me kill the Sukkers because that's-- that's what it does." Her face screwed with pain and concentration.

"It makes me eat their bones. That's where the Sukkers are, inside the Drones they take. When I ... eat the bones, it can eat the Sukkers." Silent tears streaked down her filthy face, which she lowered.

Alleathon stared, mind racing. What had she called him? Tesselëan? Why did that word ring through his blood? He could still feel her heartbeat, and now he could feel something else. There was something there with her, sharing her body. It was the most bizarre sensation he'd ever known. Something in him knew the thing inside of her; It pulled at him.

And she claimed It was eating the Sukkers? How was that possible? Sukkers dematerialized as soon as the host was dead! Wait; she had called them something else. Gontozenels. That word also stroked a chord within him, one that jangled harshly on his senses. It was true.

This ... thing that hosted in the girl was hunting Sukkers, and It knew the old names. No-one remembered what the Ancients had called themselves or what the Sukkers still called themselves. This thing did. This thing that hunted Sukkers and bowed to the Descendants of those Ancients.

"Hunter!" he snapped quietly in Ivrithan. The girl's head whipped up. The creature used her eyes to stare at Alleathon.

"The energy of the Su--Gontozenels is in the bones of the humans they possess?"

"Yes, Master Tesselëan! Life of Gontozenel! Bones!" The creature's control was not perfect; the girl fought it.

"Then all you need is the energy? You don't need the bone itself, or the human Drone?"

"Feh! Hunt Gontozenel!"

Alleathon took that for a yes. He casually lifted one of the balls from his bandoleer. "I see. Had you told me this before you grabbed this Drone, we might have been able to simplify the process. This sphere contains Gontozenel energy, drained out of the Drone hosting it. Is this what you seek?" He pressed the side of the ball, at a specific part of the subtle engraving. It began to glow softly.

The girl hissed and lunged, barely stopping herself from leaping onto Alleathon. No. The Hunter lunged, and the girl barely stopped It. She fought to control It (or herself) for several moments. They compromised; she remained kneeling on the patio, and the Hunter spoke.

"HUNT."

The hunger in that word sent a slice of fear through Alleathon. He stared down at the girl, who shook with the effort of holding back the Hunter.

"Ah. That's good to know. Here." He flipped the containment ball to her; she neatly snatched it out of the air with both hands. No need for instructions, amazingly. Her hand immediately found the right section of engraving, releasing the stolen energy. Alleathon reflexively tensed; a Sukker was loose! But only for a second; the girl opened her mouth and shoved the ball as far in as it would go. Instead of dissipating and regenerating who-knew-where, the white energy slid back over the ball and into her mouth. She sucked on the ball frantically, fiercely.

In a short time, there was no more glow from the energy ball. The girl relaxed, and the ball fell from her mouth and clattered across the deck. She leaned back on her heels with an expression so worn, so defeated that Alleathon's heart nearly broke.

"Sir Descendant," she whispered with no trace of the Hunter, "Thank you. That's the first time ... It's so ... happy now." She leaned forward slowly, gently falling facedown onto the paving. Now her tears came with tiny cries.

"Wait here," Alleathon said as his gift alerted him. "My fellow Descendants have arrived, and I will speak with them. If you will stay, Hunter, you shall have many energy balls to drain, with no flesh in the way."

Not waiting for a reply, he jumped back down to the alley-way and ran hastily to the street.

### ~~~~

"Alleathon! There you are!"

Alleathon nodded curtly at his second-in-command as he strode out of the alley-way, toting the unconscious Drone. Laillmen Konieton walked toward him, bandoleer swinging from her hips and cropped brown-and-purple hair bouncing minutely on her head. Vyenthon Nenkthen followed closely behind her, hands held slightly away from his body and fingers lightly curled as he scanned for potential threats.

Vyenthon looked exactly like Alleathon, which was to say that he looked like every male Descendant since the War came to Alluvia. His distinctions were his coloring, which was several shades of green fading into each other across his skin, his eyes, which were a brighter red than Alleathon's, and his long green hair, which he normally wore in a tail high on his head.

Laillmen looked like every female Descendant, who were not so different from their Brothers. Their feminine shape was as exaggerated as the males' masculine shape, yet each had their own unique coloration.

"Reporting in, Alleathon," Laillmen said crisply. "The e-wagon will be a few moments yet. Sonelion and Kiemelen are with the constables, assisting with rescue and retrieval."

Alleathon nodded again, not trusting his voice. He lifted the Drone and dumped him into Vyenthon's arms. The junior Descendant took the hint and carried the man away, leaving his superiors to talk. Alleathon turned back to the alley-way, a chin-jerk ordering Laillmen to follow. They paused at the opening before Alleathon spoke.

Quietly and in Temple speech, he told Laillmen what had happened. Her Descendant face showed nothing, but he knew she felt every bit as disturbed as he did.

"This Hunter creature may be a key to unlocking more of the Ancients' secrets," he said, affecting a casual stance for the eyes of the people clearing the rubble-strewn road. "It knew words I'd never heard before, and I watched It ... swallow the energy from the ball."

"Tesselëan," Laillmen murmured. "It does sound ... right. Can that really be the name of the Ancients?"

"I think it is. And the Sukkers are really Gontozenels." Laillmen shivered as her leader uttered the word.

"Yes; you're right. That's their name, without question. What of the girl?" Her solid, teal-colored eyes glanced sharply at him.

"We cannot leave her," Alleathon answered calmly. "The hells she has been through since this thing took her ... and we need to have It under supervision. And contained. We can't let It travel around killing people, not when we can drain them and leave them alive."

"That would not improve our public image; this is certain," Laillmen agreed wryly, glancing over her shoulder. "The e-wagon is here; we can take her back in that with none the wiser. And then, we shall see.

"Ah! I've just recalled something; there have been reports of maulings in several cities and towns over the last few years. Constables have called it some kind of wild animal attack, since the victims were partially eaten. But there wasn't a pattern, and the attacks were moving around. Started in ... Berziny, I believe, moved through Tautona, and more recently here in Ivrithan. It could be this Hunter; all the victims were in the same state."

They stiffened in unison and turned with blinding speed. The shabby, emaciated, blood-covered girl stood in the alley-way behind them, just out of sight of the street. She held the chewed bones in her arms and hesitated, shuffling her feet.

"Please, sir and miss Descendant. It wants to go with you. It wants to hunt and feed and ... be with Its masters." Her face twisted bitterly. In the light from the street, she looked a bit older; perhaps late adolescence. Starvation had made her eyes huge, creating a false youth in the shadows of the alley-way.

"And what of the bones?" Laillmen asked, nodding toward the offending things. The girl glanced down at her burden.

"I thought that we should try to return them to the family. For burial."

### Chapter 2

The bedraggled girl jumped quickly to the floor of the massive garage and crouched there, glancing around warily. The electrical wagon she had spent the last hour in shuddered, coughed, and fell silent behind her. Deciding that no-one was going to rush her, she stood slowly, wrapping the over-sized coat tightly around her thin body and tugging the frayed cap over her ratted hair.

Her head whipped to left as she detected movement; her knees bent reflexively as her hands left her pockets. The brown-colored Descendant, the woman, walked up to her. Laillmen Konieton; that was her name. A stocky man followed her.

"This is Len Geanopul," Laillmen informed the girl. "Len is one of the Temple guards. He'll show you around the Temple complex and take you to Merlene Dolay, the head chamberlain. She'll get you settled in."

The girl nodded cautiously.

"Be at ease, girl," Laillmen ordered firmly yet not unkindly. "You've endured a great ordeal, and we'll try to make things as gentle for you as possible. You're not a prisoner."

The girl nodded again with slightly less caution.

"Len will guide you now. Welcome to the Temple." Laillmen nodded to both of them and walked away.

Len and the girl looked each other over for several minutes. He was perhaps thirty years, of medium height and thickly built, and his uniform was clean, neatly pressed, and fitted him well. A small pistol rested in a holster on his right hip, but he made no move to unbutton the flap covering it. Len's dark brown hair lay flat on his head courtesy of some styling product. He had a well-fed, well-cared-for look to him.

The girl was small, underfed, and filthy. Her last "meal" stained the sleeves and front of her worn coat and the dark, button-down man's shirt she wore underneath. The over-sized trousers she wore hung from her middle by the tenacity of a cracked leather belt with a blackened buckle. The cuffs had been rolled up at one point, though the left one had fallen recently, revealing its shredded hem and partially covering the bare foot beneath it. Her hair color was impossible to define through the filth that caked it, as was her complexion. Her eyes, though, were hazel and seemed to burn in her face.

Len smiled hugely. "Well, then; shall we be off?" He stepped to the side and gestured politely to her. She nodded slowly and began shuffling, still slumped into her coat.

"By the by," Len said as they crossed the large, high-ceilinged garage, "I didn't catch your name. I don't want to call, 'Here, Girl!' like you were an animal, after all!" His easy grin drew a tiny response from the corners of the girl's mouth.

"I'm Sylenn," she replied quietly. She couldn't place his accent from any of the places she'd roamed over the years.

"Pretty name," Len complimented as he led her around the parked vehicles and to a set of large metal doors. "Well, Sylenn, let me give you the grand tour. This here is the garage, where we keep the big stuff. Mostly vehicles, but you can see some other things over there. I don't know what all it is; Ancients stuff. The Descendants use it sometimes, but for the most part it sits there. Most of the carriages and wagons you see here we use for moving goods: food, furniture, that sort. Temple's a big place, with a lot of people, so we need a lot of supplies. We actually grow a lot of our food; I'll show you that in a tick.

"This here is the main lift shaft; you ever seen one before? Good, good. We're actually underground right now. I'll explain more once we get up where you can see things. We won't use this shaft; it's too big and slow. This one over here is for just people. You've been in one before? Good, good. Lots of people haven't, so I make sure to ask. Alright, in we go; you can hold the rail there if you want. Let me just flip this ... and up we go."

The small chamber shuddered and lurched under their feet. Len balanced with the ease of practice; Sylenn balanced with animal grace as the lift hurtled upwards. As the guard continued talking, it occurred to Sylenn than while she understood his words clearly, there was something ... off about how he spoke. Or the way she heard him.

"The garage is about two leagues underground. No-one really knows why; that's just where the Ancients built it. This whole complex dates back the beginning of the War. At least, to the beginning of the War when it came to Alluvia. Nobody knows when they actually started fighting! Anyhow, we've added on and remodeled and the like over the years, made it more homey and such. Built the farms you'll see in a tick, added housing for the staff, some halls for various things. Oh, and the fishery; we do a lot of trade in fresh fish, actually. Not that anyone out there knows it's from us, of course. Wouldn't that be a right mess? Food from the Temple? Nah, they don't know where the fish comes from, so we can sell it with no problems.

"Alright, here we are. Watch your step, there, Sylenn; there's a girl." Len led her out of the lift and into a wide hall. A few people passed by them, each intent on some chore. One or two greeted Len as they hurried by, and one older boy gave Sylenn a cheerful wave, as well. They crossed the old, polished wood floor to a bank of windows set in the far wall, which let in brilliant sunlight. Sylenn ducked her head as they neared, letting the brim of her cap shade her face from the brilliant light. When she got to the windows and looked out, she froze. Len assumed a restful pose, hands lightly clasped behind his back.

"That's the Temple," he informed her quietly. Perhaps she needed the confirmation.

The sea of buildings below the windows seemed to glow in the warm sunlight. In the center of the valley stood a structure that must have been ten stories tall and built completely of snowy marble. Perfectly square, the Temple covered nearly half the available land. Its outer walls were actually columns, massive pillars five men with arms outstretched couldn't surround. Sylenn could just perceive people, dwarfed by both distance and the building, moving in its shadows.

A wide street separated the Temple from the buildings surrounding it. These constructions were of a more normal size and design, being a modest three or fewer levels with shake-shingle roofs, white-washed walls, and shutter-flanked windows. A gentle vibration from the glass in front of Sylenn told her that this small city was alive and well.

"So, this valley we're in is the crater of an old volcano," Len said, breaking the silence of the observation room. "Our best guess is that the Ancients wanted a protected place to put the Temple, so they redirected the lava flow from this island to the seas around it."

Sylenn glanced sharply at Len from under the brim of her cap.

"Heh! Yeah, the Ancients were a grand bunch, eh? Never did things by halves! So, this old volcano is on an island in the middle of the seas, more than a thousand leagues from the nearest continent. Any guesses where it is?" He grinned again.

Sylenn thought for a moment, then shook her head.

"We're in the middle of the Seraphac Ocean, if that helps," Len hinted.

Sylenn thought again. "The Sea of Mists?"

"That's it! The old Banewaters themselves! The Temple's the reason no-one can sail around here, why no areo-ships can fly through here, and why there are all those legends of lost sailors and what have you. See, the Ancients diverted all that lava, right? Well, it comes up under the ocean around here instead, and that's what creates all the mists and the odd smells. They also did something else, we don't know what, that keeps people who aren't afraid of superstition from getting in. Anyone who hasn't been given passage by a Descendant gets turned around or turned away and never finds the place. Used to call it magic; now we know it's science."

Sylenn nodded slowly and looked back out at the crater valley. Now she could see that the steep slopes had black patches gleaming through the sporadic grasses. That must be the old lava, cold and frozen into stone. The crater was perhaps one and a half leagues wide, half that in length, and mostly flat; the sides were nearly vertical, save at the edges, which were passable slopes dotted with tiny, moving shapes. The walls didn't rise very far, only about a quarter-league above the lowest portion of the valley.

"Over there," Len pointed to the left, "is the passage to the rest of the island. Big tunnel the Ancients dug, and the old doors they put on it still work, too. Good thing, since we get some bad storms in the spring. We're on the southern side of the world, below the equator, and still in the tropical zone. No bad winters here, which the old folks really like. Except for those storms, we've pretty good weather. Outside is where the farms are, but there are a few flocks of goats on the inside, on the rim up there. Oh, we call this the inside and the rest of the island outside; that makes sense? Good, good. Alright, Sylenn, let's get you cleaned up and give you a chance to rest a bit.

"We've got guest quarters down this way, so you've got your own place to sleep. Sometimes we have dignitaries and officials and the like come to talk with the Descendants, and this is where they stay. Nobody here right now, so you've got the run of the place. Later, we'll see about getting you someplace down in town. That's what we call the rest of the complex inside. People call the whole place here the 'Temple', but really, the only part that's the Temple is the big building where the Descendants live. The rest is Temple Island.

"Twanne! You getting our guest's room set up?" Len approached a bright-faced young woman who'd just emerged from one of the doorways lining the hall. She held a pile of linens in her arms but paused to grin at them.

"Sure am! Mom and I just finished freshening it up! You must be our guest! I'm Twanne Dolay; Mom's in there. She's Merlene Dolay, the Temple Chamberlain. You can call her Momma Merle, if you want; most folks do. I'm going to drop this down the chute, and I'll be right back! Oh, I'm sorry! What was your name?"

"Sylenn," came the guarded reply.

"Wow; that's a gorgeous name! Where are you from, Sylenn?" Twanne's eye's sparkled with lively interest, and her voice held the same curious accent as Len's.

"Twanne!" A woman's voice cracked through the air. Twanne and Len jumped as Sylenn dropped into a half-crouch; all three turned toward the room. A plump matron stood there, hands on her generous hips, frowning at the girl carrying linens. From the resemblance, this was Merlene.

"You get those sheets to the laundry quickly, now. Don't stand there jabbering all day."

"Yes, Mom! Be right back! See you in a tick, Sylenn!" Twanne dashed off with a guilty grin.

"Len, I'm sure you've work to do, then. We'll take care of Sylenn now; you get along. Thank you for your time and assistance."

Len grinned at Sylenn. "Don't worry about a thing, Sylenn. Momma Merle will take good care of you. I'm sure we'll bump into each other again." With a mock salute and half-bow, Len departed.

Sylenn looked the chamberlain over. A bit short, very round, slightly flushed, with very neat hair and clothes, Merlene was ripely middle-aged and wore her years with dignity. She stepped back and waved Sylenn in.

"Come now, child, let's get you cleaned up. Don't you mind Twanne; my daughter has a lot of learning to do yet in manners. You tell us what you want to, when you want to, and no more. Now, this is the sitting area, here's the bedchamber, and here's the bathing room. Have a hot bath ready for you, and fresh clothes. You want some help, child, perhaps with your hair? Going to take some combing, that will."

Sylenn shook her head, letting the cap's brim dip forward.

"That's fine, then. You go on and enjoy the bath. Don't rush yourself; take as long as you want. We've things to finish up out here, so call if you need us."

Cap still lowered, Sylenn nodded and slipped into the bathing room.

### Chapter 3

Kylle Satherlin looked up from the news-paper he was reading when the door opened. Tad Badin, Kylle Canylle, and Clatyn Zeynz entered the common room with long, easy strides that Satherlin secretly envied. His stunted body would never be able to do that. But that was an old sadness and easily ignored.

"Good to see you," he greeted the newcomers, setting the paper aside. "We're just waiting on Mosin and Niel, then."

"Saw Niel in the hall, said he was just getting a snack first," Tad said, plopping into a over-stuffed chair and hand-combing his dark hair away from his face. "Mosin was doing something with Brodeck in the side gardens; not sure what. Shouldn't be too long."

Lyshunda Lehbraag snorted gently as she paced to Satherlin's side. "Does Niel ever stop eating? You'd think the man would grow out of it at some point!"

"Keeps you from being tempted, dear, so be glad of it!" Kyysha M'greph teased, eying Lyshunda's thickening middle. Lyshunda stuck her tongue out at Kyysha and eyed the other woman's own generous curves. Clatyn wisely held his tongue, but a grin split his tanned face as he levered his muscled body into a chair.

Niel Huether ducked into the room and shut the door behind himself, freeing one hand of its burden by stuffing the sandwich in his mouth, dusting his short beard with crumbs. Lyshunda sighed and looked at the ceiling as the round-faced man sheepishly greeted the others. Konyetta Colgazier cheerfully waved him over to sit by her at the long table and tried to steal part of his sandwich. Hae Cavey, the oldest in the group, smiled at their friendly squabbling as she found a place on a settee. Quiana Macebyo sat next to her and remained silent, watching the interactions.

Satherlin decided to forestall any more teasing. "We'll bring Mosin up to speed when he gets here; there won't be much, since he was there. Lyshunda and I will fill you in on what we found this morning. Have you all read the report?"

Nods came from the other eight people in the comfortable room. Satherlin glanced around at them as he spoke.

"This girl appears to be hosting a creature that originally served the Ancients. It lets her move a bit faster than average, though that could be training as much as enhancement. I wasn't expecting her, of course, so I didn't get a good look at first. The Drone woman was readying a blast when the girl--"

"Sylenn," Konyetta supplied helpfully. The youngest person in the room, she was usually the first to know any news on Temple Island. "And we think she's from Ivrithan, since that's the language she speaks."

"Sylenn," Satherlin nodded in appreciation. "When Sylenn grabbed her. Got her into the alley faster than a human ought to be able to move, so that's why I think the Hunter (which is what I'm calling It) is giving her some kind of boost. I waited about a minute before following them, and they'd gone a fair ways down the alley-way in that time. And up onto a roof patio, though I couldn't tell you how she managed _that_ with a body. At any rate, the Hunter is able to do what It needs to, which is to consume the energy of the Sukkers. It forces the girl to kill the human Drones and eat their bones. That's where the Sukker is."

Several of the group blanched. Konyetta hid her face in her hands and shuddered; Niel put down his last half of a sandwich.

"But we don't yet know how It keeps the Sukker in the body long enough to actually consume it," Lyshunda added thoughtfully. "That must be another ability It has that the girl manifests. And we don't have any indication in the Records of this kind of servant to the Ancients. Whatever record there was, was lost in the Last Fight, when the Ancients vanished. Still, this creature may be what It says It is, and It may be able to help us recover lost information."

"And we can't just leave that poor girl to have to eat people!" Konyetta cried. Quiana and Kylle quickly seconded the sentiment.

"No argument there," Satherlin replied, "but we do have to be careful. She's been through a lot, and it's hurt her badly. She's more animal than human now. The look in her eyes is that of a cornered dog; she's as apt to bite as accept help. It will take her some time, perhaps much time, to get used to all of us."

"Which means that we'll have to keep Demney off her case," Clatyn added darkly. "He'll want to take her apart the minute he can; from what you're saying, that won't do any good."

"I might not have said it that way, Clat, but you are right about Dr. Demney's zeal. She might not act like it, but Sylenn is still a human. This Hunter appears eager to serve, but we shouldn't press It too hard. It could turn on us as easily."

The teleo-phone on the small table by the door clanged softly. Niel, swallowing a half-chewed bite hastily, jumped up and answered it.

"Momma's bringing Sylenn down," he told the others, replacing the receiver.

"Is it wise to bring her in here?" Tad asked. "I know that you want all of us to have a look at her, at the Hunter, but maybe we shouldn't do that here, in the Temple itself."

"I did think about it, Tad," Satherlin admitted, levering his short body out of the leather-bound chair. "We're not going to be able to hide anything from the Hunter, which means we won't be able to hide anything from Its host. She's still got all her wits ... well, most of them. She's not a Drone, is what I meant to say. She can think for herself, and she'll figure it out. Best to be up-front about it from the start. Can you think of a more neutral, more informal location that our common room?"

Tad reluctantly shook his head. Satherlin eased himself onto the floor, concealing a wince as his short legs took his weight. He'd been born a midget, a dwarf, and time had not eased the difficulty he had moving around. His head barely reached the waists of the rest of the people in the world, yet he rarely realized that he had to crane his neck to look someone in the eye. He limped over to the big table, where Quiana had pulled out a chair for him. No-one offered to help him as he hauled himself up onto it and stood leaning against the table, pretending he wasn't panting.

He'd just got his breath back when there was a knock at the door.

"Come!" Satherlin called out. The door opened, revealing Merlene Dolay. She walked into the room and stepped to one side, waving the small figure behind her to follow.

Sylenn slowly entered the room, her sharp gaze darting over every detail. She was hardly recognizable as the tattered hobo from the streets of Casserion. Her clean face was a deep caramel color featuring a broad nose and full lips. Her shaggy hair had been washed, combed, and restrained in a loose braid that began atop her head and ran down to her shoulders. Her hair was a rich brown and very curly, defying the braid's order. The old coat and cap were gone, replaced with a long-sleeved blouse of a creamy yellow color and a straight skirt in a dark gray. She now wore simple shoes and stockings and a pair of plain ear-studs.

Self-consciously, Sylenn grasped her right arm with her left hand, clenching both fists. Her action served to draw every eye to the boniness of her arms that the sleeves could not hide and the scabs and bruises that covered her hands.

"Good afternoon, Sylenn," Satherlin greeted her pleasantly. "Please, make yourself comfortable. Mrs. Dolay, thank you for taking care of her. We'll call you when we're done. Would you please leave the door open when you leave?"

Merlene raised an eyebrow at the request but nodded without hesitation. She left, making sure the hallway was empty of servants.

A few others gave Satherlin questioning looks, as well. He let them work it out on their own; the girl was in a strange place, surrounded by unfamiliar people.

Konyetta figured it out quickly and hopped up from the armchair she'd only recently claimed. "Here you go, Sylenn! This is one of the most comfortable chairs; have a seat!" She patted the back of the chair and moved over to the couch, giving Sylenn extra space. The girl nodded slightly, still darting glances around her.

The chair Sylenn perched on was the closest to the open door. It didn't match any of the other upholstery, but in fact, none of the furniture in the spacious room matched; every piece was in a different style, of a different period, and in a different condition. The table that Satherlin leaned against was possibly the oldest piece in the room and well worn. The unpadded chairs around it represented at least four different countries. The two couches were low and broken in, and the prim settees against the far wall showed their age, which was slightly less than the big table. Smaller tables protruded from the spaces between the seating, and a occasional footstool (or other object repurposed as a footstool) dotted the carpeted floor, the original color and design of which was impossible to determine.

Sylenn looked around at the group, her face slowly changing from wary to puzzled. Hers was not the only confused expression; several of the other glanced at each other with silent questions.

Satherlin began without preamble. "So, Sylenn. Do you have any questions for us just yet? I know there's probably a lot on your mind right now, and we will be explaining many things to you. But if there's anything you want to ask to start with, feel free to."

Sylenn darted several more glances around, then stared uncomfortably at her lap, where her hands gripped each other. After a few moments, she asked quietly, "You-- you're all Descendants, aren't you?"

Tad, Quiana, Niel, and Clatyn started at her question, and most of the others looked surprised. Satherlin did not. "Yes, Sylenn, we are. Did the Hunter tell you that?"

Sylenn shifted uncomfortably, head down, before answering in the same muted tone. "Sort of. It doesn't actually talk to me. It can't talk ... human. It tries to, and It gets mad when I don't understand It. It gets really mad."

"If It doesn't talk human, then how does It communicate with you?" Lyshunda probed.

"It ... thinks at me. I don't always understand Its thoughts, though. They're really bizarre. Don't make sense. So then It just makes me do whatever It wants." She blinked a few times.

"I see," Satherlin forestalled Lyshunda's next question. "To answer you more fully, yes, we are all Descendants. We don't like for others to know that we can change back to our human forms because we feel this would create more problems than are necessary. It also gives us a chance for some normalcy in our lives, a chance to remember that we are human still, despite being Descendants. Will you honor our secret?"

Sylenn's shoulders tensed suddenly. "Of course, Master Tesselëan! Of course!" she cried in a pained voice.

Konyetta half-rose from her seat before Satherlin waved her back.

"Was that the Hunter's reply?" he asked gently.

"Yes," Sylenn whispered harshly. "It ... wants to please you. It ... hates not pleasing you ... I-- It -- remembers-- It remembers-- AH!" Her head whipped back as she convulsed. "Pain! Oh, God! Pain! It hurts when It doesn't obey!"

Konyetta rushed to Sylenn's side, beating Kylle and Niel by half a second.

"Ah! Ah! It HATES YOU! Hates them!" Tears poured from her clamped eyes as she shook, struggling to hold herself still, trying to stifle the creature that had forced Its way into her body. "They took-- they stole-- Oh, God! The pain! They hurt It so much, so much!"

Niel stood behind Sylenn's chair, face creased in worry as Konyetta and Kylle spoke soothingly to her. He glanced over at Satherlin questioningly. Satherlin nodded quickly.

In an instant, a huge form stood in the plump man's place. The ocher-gold Descendant hovered his large hand over Sylenn's quivering head and sighed gently. Instantly, she stilled, her sobs trickling off into soft hiccups. After a moment, the Descendant pulled back his hand and Niel stood behind the chair again.

When Sylenn was calm again, Satherlin spoke. "It seems we have much to learn. I take it that the Hunter doesn't understand what you try to tell It, either?"

Sylenn shook her head, which was hidden in the handkerchief Konyetta had produced.

"Well, we'll do what we can, then. Do understand this, Sylenn: we do not want to hurt you or the Hunter any more. We want to help both of you."

"You can help me by killing me," Sylenn hissed, glancing up sharply from the handkerchief. Her eyes burned in her tear-streaked face. "I am dead already; a walking corpse. Kill me and end this damnation!"

"We won't do that, Sylenn," Satherlin replied compassionately. "I understand that you're going through something horrible, but I don't think that killing you will solve the problem. I won't pretend to know what your life has been like, but I won't authorize your execution, either."

Sylenn slumped in the chair. "So you'll just cage me up and make the beast do tricks, then?"

"No," Satherlin told her firmly, shifting his stance on the chair to ease his legs. "We're not going to cage you, and we're not going to force you or the Hunter to do anything. This whole War is about our freedom, about not being forced to be the pawns of aliens long dead and gone! We hope that you will cooperate with us, will allow us to study the Hunter so that we can understand what's going on, but we're not going to force you."

Sylenn stared into the handkerchief for several seconds before nodding reluctantly.

"Heyla, all! Sorry I'm late!" Mosin Jenfsen burst into the room with his customary abandon. Sylenn dove out of her chair and behind the nearest couch. Satherlin sighed as Lyshunda faced the late-comer.

"Mosin, can't you ever walk into a room like a normal person? You scared Sylenn out of her wits!" She jabbed a finger at the girl's hiding spot.

"I-- Who?" Mosin halted, bronze face going pale.

"Sylenn, our guest. The one we scheduled this meeting to talk with?" Satherlin raised his eyebrows reprovingly.

Konyetta and Kylle glanced quickly at each other; so did Quiana and Hae. Eyes flew toward Mosin's face and then toward the couch.

Mosin struggled for words. "S-- ah, Sylenn is ... an unusual name. I-- ah, could I meet her?"

A strangled cry came from behind the couch, then movement as the crouched girl scrambled further away.

"Sylenn?" Konyetta said, peering around the couch. "Sweetie? Mosin would like to say hello. Would you--"

"No!" Sylenn cried, hiding her face in her chest. "No!"

"Sylenn?" Mosin whispered, walking slowly forward.

"No!" she cried, huddling on the floor. "I'm not here! I'm not her!"

Mosin leapt around the edge of the couch and crouched down beside her. As he reached out to touch her arm, she jumped to the side and scuttled away.

"NO! Leave me alone! She's dead, do you hear me? Dead!" Tears flowed down her cheeks.

"Oh, God; Sylenn! We thought you were dead! We thought-- is it really you, Silly?" Mosin stood and crept toward her.

Sylenn half-stood and backed up into the wall. Pressing herself against it, she shook her head furiously.

"No, no," she whimpered. "Don't look at me, Momo! I'm a monster! I've got this thing inside me that makes me kill and EAT people! I'm not your little Silly anymore! She died back then! Do you hear me! She's dead!"

Mosin continued to walk carefully forward, arms extended.

"Sylenn, we don't care about any of that! We just want you back. We love you, Silly! I love you!"

Sylenn covered her face with her hands and sobbed. Mosin swiftly crossed the space between them and folded her into his arms.

The world turned white.

### ~~~~

Sylenn looked up from Mosin's arms and stared into the startled face of a Descendant. He was green, with long green hair bound by a wide blue band around his forehead. A quick glance around the common room showed ten other Descendants in various positions: sitting, standing, leaning against walls or furniture; one male Descendant stepped down from a chair. They all wore shocked expressions. Sylenn glanced back at the Descendant who'd taken Mosin's place, who was now staring at her with bright red eyes and backing away. Glancing down, Sylenn gasped loudly.

Her body had transformed. Gone were the thin arms, bony hips, bruises, scratches, blouse, and skirt. In their place was a powerful, well-developed figure wearing no clothing. The skin bore variegated shades of green and white gently swirling into one another. From her viewpoint, her breastbone stood out prominently in the center of her chest, which was considerably fuller than before. Below it, she could see healthy arms, large hands, a flat stomach, and long, long legs reaching down to a floor that was suddenly very far away.

"Impossible," someone murmured.

Sylenn fought to control her breathing. "What's happening?" she managed to ask. "What happened to me?" Her voice, so different, rose shrilly.

The Descendant who had taken Mosin's place regained his composure. "Welcome Sister. What is your name?"

"My-- my name? My name is Sylenn! What-- what--"

"Take ease, young Sister," the red-skinned Descendant said calmly, coming up to them. "It would seem that you are also a Descendant, Sylenn. It's nothing to be afraid of; we're all here to help you. You have just Awakened through the touch of your Brother Descendant, Vyenthon Nenkthen. You already know your own name; let it flow into your mind."

"I'm Sylenn!" she gasped, cradling her arms to her chest, looking around wildly at the bizarre, solid-colored eyes of the Descendants. "I'm--"

"Who was your father?" the red one demanded.

"Fulen!" The answer tumbled out of her mouth. "Wait, how did--"

"Who was your mother?"

"Ah, Soneli. Wait, I don't understand--"

An ocher-gold Descendant walked up to her other side and placed a hand on her shoulder. Calm washed over her as he said, "We welcome you, Sister Fulenthen Sonelion."

Fulenthen glanced from one to the other, fighting the calm.

The world turned black.

### Chapter 4

"Silly? Silly, can you hear me? Sylenn, sweetie, come on, wake up now."

The gentle pleading slunk through the black haze, feebly poking at the temporary peace. Sylenn groaned and fought to stay in the blackness. It was quite, no beast clawing at her mind, forcing her body to move. She didn't want to wake up. Didn't want to go back to the hellish life she couldn't escape.

With a stifled shriek, Sylenn shot upright, arms flailing. Her right arm smacked Mosin across the jaw, her left hand punched Lyshunda in the neck. Another second of flapping, then she hugged her arms to her chest. Her normal, blouse-covered chest.

She stared at her body for several breaths before movement at her side caught her attention. The midget stood there, next to Mosin, who sat on the floor looking dazed. A muffled choking came from the other side of the couch.

"Glad to see you're back with us," the dwarf said wryly. "While we let our brother and sister compose themselves, let me bring you up to speed. You might want something to drink; this is going to be a long explanation."

He took his own advice, lifting a glass from a tray that one of the women, small and dark-haired, brought around. One of the men, the huge one, brought a padded footstool over, and the midget settled himself on it so that he was almost eye-to-eye with Sylenn.

"Now, before I begin, I'd like to clear up the confusion about you and Mosin. I take it that you are the long-lost sister he's occasionally mentioned?"

Sylenn took a swallow from her glass, looking at Mosin from under her lashes. "Yes," she finally replied. "Alright, alright. I'll tell you what happened.

"I was at natural science conservatory for a summer in Dathon; that's in Ivrithan over by the border with Tautona. I was eleven years old. We were out one night watching the meteor shower and mapping the stars. It-- one of the meteors actually hit near us, and we-- we were all excited to go see it. It was very hot, so we couldn't touch it, but we stayed for almost an hour, watching it glow. The tutors took us back to the cabins, but I couldn't sleep. It was too much, I guess. I was so excited to be at the conservatory, to have seen so much. I kept thinking about the meteor. Since I couldn't sleep, and everyone else was already asleep, I snuck out and went back to the field where it had landed. It was dark, so I thought it would be hard to find, but I knew right where it was.

"It wasn't very hot anymore, so I picked it up. When I did ..." Sylenn swallowed and lowered her head.

"We thought she was dead, but we weren't sure," Mosin whispered, reaching out to take his sister's hand. Sylenn flinched, but allowed the touch. "Three days without word, and someone went to the conservatory to check on things. Everyone there was dead. So many of them were unidentifiable, and only some of those were eventually named. No-one really could say what had happened, but ... people had been torn apart, walls knocked in, lots of things destroyed. No-one knew what to make of it. We thought she was dead." He swallowed and leaned forward to grip Sylenn in a fierce hug.

"So," Satherlin summarized, "the Hunter was in the rock somehow and latched onto you for a host. When It did so, the result was the destruction of the conservatory?"

Sylenn snorted from within Mosin's embrace. "It made me kill them, tear them apart, and eat them," she said, voice muffled by her brother's arm. She buried her head further into his hold. "I didn't know what was happening. It was months before I remembered my own name, and I had no idea where I was or what I was doing. After that ... I just started wandering. The beast would make me travel, always looking for big cities, always trying to find the things that stank."

"The Gontozenels?" Lyshunda asked, voice hoarse and raw. The others in the room shuddered.

"Yes, if that's what they're called. I only know that It could find them because of how they smelled; It doesn't like how they smell."

"So, the creature finds them by scent, and It hunts them down and eats them?" Clatyn asked, his voice thick with some familiar accent. Tautonan.

"Yes!" Sylenn snapped weakly. "It made me kill the person so It could kill the ... the Gontozenel." Another shudder flitted around the room.

"How did It keep the Sukkers from vanishing?" the big man pressed, leaning forward in his chair. "We've never been able to trap the energy once it leaves the Drone."

Sylenn sighed and leaned back. Mosin shifted so he could sit next to her on the couch, arms still surrounding her. "I don't know; It just ... did something. I could never tell. It made them freeze somehow, made them stay in the marrow until I could get to them." She closed her eyes and leaned against Mosin's shoulder.

"We'll get details later, Clat," Satherlin interrupted. "So, that's what's been happening to you these past ... eight years?" Sylenn and Mosin both nodded. "So, let me fill you in on what happened in the last half-hour.

"You're a Descendant, Sylenn; your name is Fulenthen Sonelion. In fact, you and Clatyn are 'cousins' of a sort because his mother was Soneli, too. So, how this works. You know that the touch of a Descendant is what Awakens a new Descendant, right? That's why we're careful to not touch people; they think we might make them into Descendants. That's not entirely true. You have to be a Descendant for our touch to do anything. Normal people don't change just because we touch them. There have never been more than about a dozen to fifteen Descendants at any one time before. And there have never been two Descendants from the same generation of the same family before.

"You see, the Descendants were created by the Ancients to fight the Drones, the humans the Sukkers-- the Gontozenels took over and forced to fight the War for them. The Sukkers took hundreds, thousands of humans as Drones, but the Ancients, the Tesselëans, took only a few. Instead of stripping them of their minds and wills, they altered their bodies and gave them the ability to fight back, to protect the people of Alluvia. The Sukkers continue by taking new hosts when their old ones die off; we continue by having children and passing the traits on to them.

"Which is one reason why we don't let it be known that we can change forms. What we tell the public is true; once Awakened, a Descendant can never go back. Once you've changed, suited up for the first time, everything is different. Your purpose in life is the defense and freedom of Humanity. But we let others think that this means we stay suited up for the rest of our lives. That's what we call the other body, by the by: the suit. Sometimes, we want to be able to walk around in public without being stared at, yelled at--"

"Or have people falling at our feet, worshipping us," Tad muttered bitterly.

"Or that," Satherlin agreed. "The Worshippers are as bad as the Contemptors, in their own way. Sometimes, we want to be normal people. So, we let them think that the suit is all there is. But it isn't. We're still able to have families, those of us who want them. And our children inherit the potential to become Descendants, and they pass it on to their children. Descendants are quite rare, as I mentioned; there aren't often many of us at once. And there's never been a case where two children from the same family were both Descendants at the same time. Perhaps it was merely a matter of time, and that has finally come."

"You even look alike!" Konyetta added cheerfully. "You're both the same kind of green, though Mo's more bluey and Silly's more whitish. But your hair is the same!"

"Yes," Satherlin interjected, "though that doesn't mean anything. There's no rhyme or reason to who your Ancient parents were or how that heritage will manifest in you. You noticed that you and Mosin have different names? That's because you had different 'parents', yet you're siblings in reality. We haven't been able to figure out how that works, and most of us have decided it isn't worth banging our heads for. We do know that there were twenty-five female and thirty-two male Ancients who created the Descendants because that's how many names have come up over the ages.

"Most of the names come up fairly regularly; there's not one Ancient or pairing of Ancients who seems to have any precedence in Descendants. And even those Descendants who end up having the same 'parents' aren't necessarily alike in any way. We've had four Alleathon Naichens, for example (that's my name), and all of us have been different.

"Each Descendant has the same basic set of abilities and traits, plus a few special ones of our own. All the men look alike, and all the women look alike, except for color. The hair is usually different, too--"

"When you've got it," Niel snickered.

Satherlin shot him a sideways glance. "Yes, when you've got it. Our voices are difficult to tell apart, though with practice, you'll manage it. Sometimes, we also have additional body parts. For example, Clatyn has horns. You, Sylenn, have a tail."

"I do?" Sylenn exclaimed, twisting around. Satherlin chuckled dryly.

"Yes, but not in your regular form; your suit has the tail. It will improve your balance, and you may be able to use it like another hand. You'll get to practice with it in time. Maybe that will be your particular ability; we don't know yet. Mine is the ability to hear and distinguish between heartbeats for two leagues around me. Mosin can reshape his hands into simple weapons; Lyshunda can run faster than anything; Niel can calm people down; Quiana has fins and webbing and can swim better than most fish. There's no pattern to how anyone gets the specialties they do; everything seems entirely randomized.

"So, family lines among Descendants aren't the same as among us humans. I think I can speak for most of us that when you came in here, we realized that you looked familiar. That's because you and Mosin resemble each other. It's pure coincidence that your suits resemble each other, and we won't tell anyone outside the Temple that you're related. You might not have noticed, but we're tight-lipped about our pasts." Another wry smile. Sylenn nodded again.

"Everyone within the Temple is safe; you don't have to worry about anyone prying or pushing at you here. In fact, most of the workers here are related to past Descendants, so they take family pride in helping us. They take good care of us, too. We travel frequently, searching out Sukkers and Drones, and we spend a lot of time dealing with those problems. That doesn't leave us much time to do regular things, such as hold jobs or clean or what have you, so they do all that for us. I know this won't be easy, and I can't imagine what having the Hunter with you will do, but we're all here for you."

Heads around the room nodded, and Mosin hugged his sister closer. She looked around at all of them solemnly for a few seconds.

"You're assuming that I'm going to stay," she said quietly. "That I want to fight Sukkers."

"Yes, we are." Satherlin leaned back on the stool casually. "Most of us didn't want to stay when we first found out that we were Descendants; it's a common response."

Tad made a humorless grin and chuckled darkly. "You should have seen the fit I made. I'm from Berziny." Sylenn nodded; Tad looked Berzinian with his black hair and deeply tanned skin. His accent, too, was telling. Berziny was a nation of Contemptors and Pontifists; finding that he was one of their "daemons" must have been traumatic for the man.

"We all go through this time of upset, Sylenn. You'll find that you can't run away from this, however. We're born Descendants; we're born to protect our people, to protect Alluvia. Even if you left the Temple and tried to live a normal life, you'd find yourself in the middle of things every single time. The War is everywhere; Sukkers are everywhere. Every time you get near one, it will try to kill you. Take the time you need to get used to it, but you're one of us now. Welcome to the family!" Satherlin smiled and reached out to pat Sylenn's knee.

She jumped up and dodged behind the couch, putting it between herself and everyone. "NO! I'm not going to do this! I don't care what you say, I'm done!"

"Silly--" Mosin began, rising from the couch.

"No, Mosin. Not you, not them! Do you have any idea what this is like? Do you? You can't; you've never been possessed by an alien thing that makes you kill people! You don't know what it's like to have the taste rotting in your mouth for weeks on end. You don't know what it's like to not dare to vomit it all up because you might not get to eat for another week or longer! To hear It screaming in your head, beating at your brain because you can't understand what It's telling you! To not know if it's your thoughts or Its thoughts, or why you just did what you just did.

"To be driven mad by something that's furious and hateful and forced to destroy and-- and-- and now you're telling me I have to go back out there and give this beast Descendant power to toy with?! Do you have any idea how horrible that will be? This thing, this monster inside me, It kills and kills; It makes me kill and kill! Those people ... most of them, you can barely find enough to bury once I'm done with them; It makes me eat every single bone-- And now you want to turn It loose with all the power of a Descendant? No! No, no, no!"

"Ah, Sylenn," Konyetta interrupted hesitantly, "since the Hunter is so ... um, vocal to you most of the time, I wondered what It was telling you now? If you can get an idea of what It thinks of all this?"

Sylenn paused, her gaze suddenly drawn inward. A deep frown creased her thin face. Concentration slowly gave way to fear, and she looked up, troubled.

"It's quiet," she whispered. "I can't hear It."

Mosin leaned toward her over the couch. "Is It gone?" he asked eagerly.

"No, It's still there. But It's ... hiding in the back of my mind. It ..." She frowned, closing her eyes. "I think ... It's afraid of ... the new thing, the ... Descendant me."

"That may be," Satherlin mused, looking over at Lyshunda.

"You did say that It called you 'Master' before," Lyshunda replied. "Maybe It realizes that Its host can now command It."

"That's fantastic!" Clatyn jumped up from his seat at the table. "This thing can sniff out Sukkers, and we can control It! We'll have those bastards beaten in no time now!"

"Sit down," Lyshunda ordered crossly, her own accent so light that Sylenn only now caught it. Clat obeyed, huge grin firmly fixed.

"I ..." Sylenn began. After a moment, she tried again. "It's never been quiet like this before. It's always been right there, right in the front of my mind. Now ... I don't know." She wrapped her thin arms around herself tightly.

Mosin crossed over to her and enfolded her in his arms again. "It's alright, Sylenn. We'll work it all out, don't you worry." Pressing a kiss to her hair, he whispered, "I'm going to make sure it's alright!"

"We're all here for you, Sylenn," Hae spoke up. Sylenn darted a glance at the white-haired, black-skinned woman with a rolling speech pattern. "Your situation is unique, but so was each of ours. I was a street rat before Hong Awakened me. I know what it's like to be starving and desperate and alone. I never had a ... joyrider like you have, but I had a lot of bigger, stronger toughs pushing me around. It's not the same, but I can imagine something of what you're going through."

"But-- I'm a murderer," Sylenn whispered, tears spilling onto her cheeks. "I've killed so many people, and I ATE them."

"I killed people, too," Kylle offered. "I was a rebel against the Akroiti army. Sniper, first class. Usually took assassination jobs."

"And many former Descendants were of cannibalistic tribes," Satherlin added.

"Though they gave that up once they Awakened," Lyshunda put in hastily.

"But you're not the first to have a spotted past, Sylenn," Satherlin told her earnestly. "We're all here to help you through this."

"And I don't care, Sylenn," Mosin said, pulling back to look her in the face. "You hear me, Silly? I don't care what's happened, what you've done, what that thing made you do. You're my sister, and I thought you were dead. I just got you back, and I'm not letting go!" He wrapped her up again, gently rocking her. "I love you, Silly. I love you."

With a final glance around at the faces of the Descendants, Sylenn began to shudder, burying her head in her brother's chest.

### Chapter 5

"Here you go, Sylenn!" Twanne opened the door with a flourish. The small apartment was well-furnished with upholstered furniture, rich drapes, and a thick, soft carpet that stretched from wall to wall. Large windows overlooked the lush garden tucked inside the Temple complex, reserved exclusively for the Descendants' use. The sitting room boasted soft yellows and oranges, which gave the room a warm afternoon glow despite the late hour. The ceiling towered overhead; while the furnishings were meant for humans, the structure was obviously meant for Descendants.

"You have your own kitchen right here should you want to cook or keep snacks. We can bring you meals, if you'd prefer, or you can go down to the dining room and eat with the others. It's up to you! This is your bedroom here, and it has another sitting area by the fireplace that's simply cozy at night. And this is your bathing chamber, with all the latest plumbing and fancies. Oh, and here's where the towels are, and here are some toiletries for you ..."

Sylenn drifted after Twanne through the flat located in the west side of the Temple. This area of the third floor of the building was the private retreat of the Descendants. There were many more quarters than Descendants, which Twanne noted were "just in case". This one was designed for a single occupant, though many of the rest were family-sized. Lyshunda, Quiana, and Niel had their families with them in the Temple; Hae's children had moved out several years before, to their own homes in the town, though she kept the quarters she'd shared with her husband until his death. Niel's twin sons had nearly bowled Sylenn over when she'd come upstairs. Apparently they needed to practice being jungle fighters who had somehow found their way into the big city.

Mosin followed behind Sylenn, never taking his eyes off her and eagerly asked her opinion of everything she saw.

"Isn't this swell, Sylenn? Have you ever seen anything like this before? Oh, you have to come out here when it's nighttime; the stars go on forever! We'll go out to the farms later, and I'll show you everything. Oh, and look at this ..."

Twanne opened an intricately carved wardrobe, revealing clothing on hangers and in drawers. "Lots of Descendants don't have much when they come, so we always keep a goodly store of clothes on hand. You get a hankering for anything in particular, you just let me know, alright? Over here is the hamper; just put all your dirties in there. Any special instructions, just slip a note in with it. I'll be in charge of your household, so you just tell me what you want, and I'll find a way to get it for you! Now, it's dinner time in a tick, so do you know where you want to eat?"

"Come eat with us, Sylenn," Mosin begged. "They want to get to know you, and you've been alone so long! Please?"

Sylenn nodded, staring at the floor.

"That's just fine!" Twanne beamed. "Now, tonight's menu is fresh fish caught right here off the Island, a lovely roast haunch, some grilled fowl--"

"No meat," Sylenn interrupted quietly. "I-- I don't want any meat."

Concern washed over Twanne's face. "Oh! Of course not; how thoughtless of me! Well, I'll make sure the cooks know to keep a goodly supply of vegetable dishes for you. I'll just go do that right now, if that's alright. Dinner's in fifteen; Mosin, could you show her down? Good, good; I'm off!"

"Silly? Do you want to wash up or change before dinner? We usually don't go very fancy, so you don't have to, if you don't want to."

Sylenn sat down on an armchair without speaking. Mosin promptly claimed the chair next to her and leaned over to take her hand.

"I want you to promise me something, Momo," she said after a moment.

"Of course!"

"You-- they all think I'm dead, don't they? Mummy and Poppa a-and all of them?"

"Yes!" Mosin exclaimed. "Of course; we all did. We hoped that you were just missing, but after a few years, well, we had to accept that you were gone. We had a service for you, and there's a plaque for you--"

"You can't tell them, Mosin. I don't want them to know that I'm not dead." Sylenn looked into her brother's widened eyes.

"What? Why? Why not? We have you back, back from the dead!"

"Because I am dead, Mosin. I died that day when the beast stole my life. It killed me, Mosin, even if my body is still alive. I'm no better than a Drone. I can't hear everything It says or thinks, but I've caught enough to know that It won't leave me unless I'm dead. When It takes someone else, I'll really be as dead as I feel. And-- and I can't tolerate the idea of them seeing me like this! Of knowing what a daemon I am!"

"No, Sylenn! You're not a daemon! Listen to me! Yes, it was an awful-- a terrible time, but it's alright! We don't care; you're still our Sylenn. You're still my baby sister, you're still Mummy and Poppa's little girl. It doesn't matter what happened; none of that was your fault. It was the Hunter, trying to serve the Ancients and free Humanity. No government will prosecute you, now that you're a Descendant. And if you think that being the Hunter's host and doing what It forced you to makes you unforgivable, well, that's foolishness! I know you, Sylenn. I know that you're not a wicked person."

Sylenn shook her head, eyes closed. "Mosin, I've changed. It's been eight years; I'm not the little girl you knew."

Mosin lifted her chin so he could look into her eyes. "The little girl I knew could not have changed that much."

"Mosin, I did change that much." She stood and turned away from him. "I should get ready for dinner."

### ~~~~

"... so Demney can sit and wait his turn," Satherlin finished, taking a swallow from his mug.

"Yes, sir," the uniformed man replied. With a bow, he left the dining hall.

Kylle popped a fried clam strip into his mouth and commented, "As much as I like to see Demney get his, you do know he's going to be impossible for having to wait so long, right?"

"I know," Satherlin agreed, "but I won't have her pestered. We've thrown enough at her for the day; let her soak it in. Bad enough she's a Descendant, but having the Hunter living in her, too? Demney's going to want to take her apart, and I won't allow that."

"I agree with you fully on that point," Lyshunda said, rescuing one of Quiana's daughters from soaking herself with a poorly-placed bowl of soup. "The Hunter is an unknown. It seems quiet now, with all of us here and the girl being one of us, but that doesn't mean anything. Pressing her will press It, and that won't do anyone any good."

"Oh, Demney's not so bad," Niel offered from his end of the long table, where he now divided his attention between two hungry seven-year-olds. "You know he means well, and he's really after the same thing we are."

"But he doesn't have to be such a _Scheisskerl_ ," Clatyn grumbled. His wife slapped his arm and scolded his word choice in their native language.

The door opened to let Mosin and Sylenn in.

"Ah, glad you decided to join us, you two!" Satherlin called out with a smile. "We thought you'd want to have a private meal and catch up."

"But we're very happy to see you!" Konyetta added, scooting her chair down to make room. "Come sit by me, Sylenn!"

Mosin led the way around the long table that filled the dining hall. Chairs and benches surrounded it, yet the seating was not crowded. The room was bright and pleasantly decorated with pictures and lightly patterned paper; two small electrical chandeliers hung over the table from brass chains, throwing clear, unflickering light on the diners.

On the other end of the room was another door, this one on double-hinges to swing both ways. Servers came through at intervals, either bringing or taking trays with them. Sylenn moved over to the chair Konyetta patted invitingly, eying the others. One of the Descendants was missing; she couldn't remember who. Oh, the old woman. The others clustered around in subtly defined family groups.

"Let me make the introductions," Konyetta said cheerily. "Down there we have Niel Huether and his boys, Joth and Erim, and his wife Frisha. Niel is Heleathon Thayen." The slightly rotund man waved cheerfully, teeth showing through his squared beard. His wife, equally plump, smiled as she grabbed a small hand reaching father than it should.

"Kylle Canylle, whom you know from earlier, is Poinathon Wedernen, and Quiana Macebyo (that's Fankrethen Valbonon) and her husband Risheri. Their daughters are Auana and Nankoa." Kylle nodded politely, his swarthy face sporting a neat mustache and goatee. Quiana ducked her head gently, as did her adult daughters. Risheri studiously ignored everyone at the table. In contrast to the darker Akroitian, the Macebyos were from Qina: small, lean, sleek black hair, and slanted eyes.

"Lyshunda Lehbraag is Laillmen Konieton; those are her son Gregim and husband Fillew." The fair-skinned woman smiled politely, as did her husband, who had the look of the people native to the Island. Gregim, a few years younger than Sylenn and still gawky, looked up from his plate with cheeks bulging. Struggling to swallow, he managed to bob his head and mutter something.

"And then there's Tad Badin, known as Lithilon Xaylen and a confirmed bachelor, and Clatyn Zeynz and his wife Sarlira. Clat goes by Sonelion Ryalen." Tad, the somber Berzinian, sat next to the blond Tautonan mountain that was Clatyn. While Sarlira was not broadly built, she matched her husband in height and coloring.

"On this side, there's you two and me, Konyetta Colgazier, the redoubtable Kiemelen Navvason, then Kyysha M'greph and her fiancée Uthrom Welsem (she's Xaylen Anilenon), then Kylle Satherlin, our fearless leader and Alleathon Naichen."

Konyetta was petite but not short, resembling many of the Islanders with her dark hair, broad features, and full lips. Kyysha could have been from any of several nations to the east, with her dark-brown skin and high forehead. Uthrom had darker skin, which could mean he was from Vanautue. He grinned affably, revealing large, white teeth. Satherlin raised his mug to Sylenn and took another pull from it.

"On the end down there is Brodeck Dolay, our chief agronomist and Momma Merle's husband. Hae Cavey, Naichen Koniethon, is out in town with her grandchildren; she usually doesn't eat with us. And that's all of us!"

Sylenn sat down and nodded to everyone in turn. A woman bustled up behind her and set down a plate of salad greens and a glass of water.

"Everyone, this is Sylenn Jenfsen, Mosin's sister," Satherlin announced. "She's a newly Awakened Descendant named Fulenthen Sonelion and has come to join us."

Polite welcomes echoed through the room, mixing with the chinking sounds of dinnerware.

"I heard she was a Drone," one of Niel's boys piped. His mother quickly shushed him.

"No, Erim, she's not a Drone," Niel said firmly. "Drones can't come to the Temple."

"Why not?" Joth asked, spraying his mouthful of food on the table.

"Don't talk with your mouth full," Frisha scolded.

"Because they can't," Satherlin answered firmly. He turned back to Sylenn. "How do you like your quarters, Sylenn? You can look at some of the others, if you want, and you can always ask your housekeeper for anything."

"It's fine," Sylenn murmured, hastily swallowing her mouthful, which had been rather large. "And Twanne already told me I could ask her for anything."

A snort from Sylenn's side caught her attention just as Konyetta exclaimed, "Oh, you got Twanne! How wonderful; she's such a sweet girl. She'll take excellent care of you, don't you worry. You'd be hard pressed to find anyone more devoted to the Descendants." Was that a sly look she shot down the table? At ... Kylle? Perhaps; he did seem very focused on his plate just then, his dark cheeks a little darker.

"So that's settled," Satherlin stated with satisfaction. "Everyone eat up and enjoy! Tonight will be a relaxing night at home, for a change, so let's have at it!"

### Chapter 6

When Twanne entered Sylenn's apartment the next morning, she did not immediately realize that her charge was sitting in one of the armchairs next to the big windows.

"Ai! Oh, you startled me, Miss Jenfsen! Goodness, give me a tick to get my wits back! Here's breakfast, then; I brought it up for you. Most like to take breakfast in their quarters, when they're here at all, so I thought you might like the same. Is that alright with you, Miss Jenfsen?"

Sylenn nodded. "I'd rather you called me Sylenn," she said quietly. "I'm not really a Jenfsen anymore."

Twanne shook her head ruefully. "I appreciate the gesture, Miss Jenfsen, but Mom reminded me last night that I shouldn't be so familiar. For my sake, please let me call you Miss Jenfsen for a while; at least until Mom thinks I've learned my lesson!"

Twanne gave such a mischievous wink that Sylenn couldn't help a tiny smile.

"Ah! I knew you had a smile in you somewhere! It's not all gone yet, now is it? You tuck into breakfast now, while I freshen things up. Did you sleep well?" she called over her shoulder as she sailed into the bedroom.

"Yes," Sylenn called back, picking up the warm cup of juava and holding it reverently.

"That's what I like to hear! But you tell me right off if you didn't, alright? No hiding things just to be polite around here, no, ma'am! You'll likely spend the day learning all about being a Descendant, so you'll want to dress comfortable. Do you have a preference of clothing, or shall I just lay out a nice dress for you?"

Sylenn tore her attention away from her steaming beverage. "I-- um-- could I wear trousers?" she asked timidly.

"Trousers?" Twanne popped her head around the door-frame to look at Sylenn. "Miss Jenfsen, I meant it when I said you just ask me for anything at all. If you want to wear trousers, then you will wear trousers! We don't hold to what people out there consider fashionable and 'polite'. Why, once we had a Descendant, I don't know, three hundred years ago, from some mud-hut island on the other side of the world, and you couldn't get him to wear a stitch of clothing at any time! If we let him run around naked as he pleased (and we did!), then you can wear trousers." With a firm nod, she ducked back into the room.

Sylenn thought about it as she picked up a sticky baked thing from the tray and sniffed it. As she finished the last bite, Twanne sailed back into the sitting room with an armful of linens, which she piled by the door.

"I've set out a nice set for you, Miss Jenfsen; I think you'll find them quite comfortable. We took your measure yesterday, so all the clothes and shoes should fit fairly well. They so much as think about rubbing you wrong, you let me know, alright? Alright. Now, what sort of food would you like stocked in the pantry here? Mostly finger foods and quick to eat, or something more hearty and meal-like? There's a cold-box here, so you can keep fresh things like milk and cream and vegetables. Have you ever used an electrical hotplate before? No? Well, it's no great thing, and this isn't much different; you'll learn it in a tick. Just you wait until you see the other things they left; that'll spin your head!

"This Temple was built by the Ancients, and most of the things in here are their science, not ours. We've had a time of it, sorting it out and renovating it to suit us better. I've seen stenos of how it was way back when, and let me tell you, those Ancients didn't know a thing about decorating! Ghastly! Why, they wanted the bathing chamber in the middle of the apartment, lavatory and all! Can you imagine! Well, we knocked out as many walls as we could and rearranged things somewhat, but you'll find odd corners here and there, and that's why.

"All done there, Miss Jenfsen? Here, let me pour you another cup to take in while you get dressed. If you like, when you're ready, I'll take you around and show you all of the Temple proper; what do you say? Show you some of the places the others (whom I won't name but are such stuffies!) wouldn't think about going. So, you hop in and get changed, and I'll make a list of staples for your pantry."

### ~~~~

The chattering housemaid gave a lively tour, Sylenn had to admit. They traipsed around the massive building, discovering servants' quarters, the kitchen garden, a large storage closet filled with enough linen to keep a thousand beds fresh, unused rooms, a long stairway with a shining railing (polished by generations of youngsters sliding down it, Twanne confided innocently), a long hallway that was said to be the best place to practice skating in one's stockings, a kennel of dogs bred for export (and the amusement of small children and perhaps a few adults), a pair of enormous doors through which larger furniture could be brought in, the lift shaft for moving large loads to the various floors (there were five floors in total, all double the 'normal' ceiling height and tall enough to make the suited Descendants comfortable), and several of Twanne's favorite odd corners. One was near the private garden outside Sylenn's rooms.

"This little cubby can't be seen until you're right up on it, which makes it wonderful for private reflection. And hiding from Mom," she confided with a wink. "You can hear the fountain and smell the flowers, and in the afternoons, the sun comes right over the roof and warms it right up. I don't mind sharing it with you, Miss Jenfsen. I can tell that you'd want a private place every now and again."

"Thank you, Twanne," Sylenn replied gratefully. The corner was lovely and very private, just big enough for one person.

"Not at all, Miss Jenfsen," Twanne smiled. "Sometimes, you just need to get away from all of this. I've been off the Island a few times, but most of my life I've spent here. I love it, but once in a while, I need some breathing room. Gets to be a bit much, you know, especially whe-- ah, well, I supposed Mr. Satherlin will tell you all about that. I supposed we'd best get you down there, then. This way, Miss Jenfsen!"

Sylenn hesitantly stepped into the chamber Twanne had called the practice room to find only Satherlin, Lyshunda, Mosin, and Clatyn waiting for her.

"There you are, Silly!" Mosin called, bounding up and giving her a big hug. After a moment, she hugged him back.

"Good morning, Sylenn," Satherlin greeted her. "Sleep well?"

"Yes, sir," she murmured, disengaging herself from her brother.

"Good, good. So, time to get you familiar with your new self. Have a seat; we don't keep any furniture in here, which you'll be glad of soon enough, so pull up some floor. Now, I gave you some basic information yesterday; today I'll give you practical application. You'll also get the chance to start moving in your suit. So, suiting up is really very easy, as is unsuiting. Remember your Descendant name?"

Sylenn ducked her head and shook it negatively.

"Yes, you do, Sylenn," Satherlin said sternly. "I know that you don't like this; I'm not asking you to like it. But one of your concerns was the Hunter would be able to use your powers to rampage, correct? Mastering your abilities will prevent that from happening. So, what is your name, Sister?"

"... Fulenthen Sonelion," she grudgingly whispered.

"So then, your name is the key. To suit up, you think of your father's name and find where it is deep inside you. You know how to do it already; the Ancients made sure that all of us could. To unsuit, you do the same for your mother's name. It's the opposite for men; we think of our mother's name, then our father's. Give it a try."

Fists balled in her lap, Sylenn closed her eyes, screwing her face in concentration. After a few seconds, her thin form vanished, replaced by her Descendant body.

"Excellent," Alleathon congratulated her. Fulenthen opened her eyes and looked around at the seated Descendants. She remembered all of them except ... whoever Clatyn was; his suit was dark blues with gray on his hands and lower legs. His hair was cropped close to his head with deep furrows over his temples to accommodate a pair of thick horns that swept backwards.

"Clatyn is Sonelion Ryalen," Alleathon ... Satherlin reminded her. "You'll note that he has the same mother as you, Soneli. Mosin is Vyenthon Nenkthen. We're all named after our Ancient parents, but as I said yesterday, having the same parents, even exactly the same, doesn't mean much. Now, I want you to practice moving around, getting used to your suit. First, just get up off the floor."

Sylenn ... Fulenthen frowned slightly. In the next instant, she was on her feet, stumbling slightly.

"Careful," Vyenthon cautioned, steadying her. "You can move a lot faster than you're used to. Don't be surprised if you find yourself walking into walls for the first few days. They had to do a lot of repairs when I first came here." He offered a wry smile.

"You've always been a terror, Vyenthon," Fulenthen muttered, the Descendant name overriding the familiar one in her thoughts and speech. In fact, she found it difficult to use real names for the suited Descendants.

"Walk around for a bit, slowly," Alleathon commanded. "Get used to how it feels. The suit is very powerful, so you don't have to put as much effort into it as you're accustomed to. Good, good. Vyenthon, give her some space. So, then, walk next to me, Fulenthen. Try to match what I'm doing."

He led her around the big, open chamber, first walking in a wide circle, then abruptly changing direction, followed by a fast walk, a jump, and a slow jog. Then he passed her off to Lys-- Laillmen, who pressed her for speed and agility. Vyenthon hovered anxiously from the corner where Alleathon had banished him.

"I let you stay because she's your sister and you're concerned, but you do not get to interrupt her training," the red Descendant had informed him severely.

After an hour, Alleathon called a halt. "Very good work, Fulenthen, very good. You've got the knack of it now. We'll take a short break and get some refreshments. Unsuit."

Fulenthen closed her eyes, and in a moment, the scrawny young woman stood in her place. She swayed slightly before Mosin caught her.

"Easy there, Sylenn," he whispered.

"Mosin!" Lyshunda snapped. "Let her be! She has to learn to do this for herself."

"Yes, madam," Mosin grumbled, letting go of his sister. The big doors opened, admitting several servants carrying trays of food and drink. The five sat on the hard floor again and ate.

"I can see you've got questions, Sylenn; feel free to ask them," Lyshunda said. "You're one of us now, part of our family. We want to help you learn."

Sylenn nodded, thinking. "What happens to my clothes?" she finally ventured.

The rest chuckled in unison. "No-one knows," Clat answered. "That's one of a great many mysteries the Ancient so kindly left us. You'll find it's not only your clothes that vanish when you suit up, but anything you're carrying, too. Shoulda seen Hae the time she had to suit up coming back from market; she was carrying a bag of glass bottles! When she unsuited, crash!" He laughed heartily, Mosin joining him.

When he recovered, Clatyn added, "The only things that won't vanish is anything made by the Ancients. The bandoleers we use are made from some material we found left behind after the Last Fight, which is why they've lasted so long. Sometimes, a fight will damage one beyond repair, but they're nearly as sturdy as we are in our suits."

"It ... It feels very odd to be naked," Sylenn wrapped her arms around herself.

"Think of it as unclothed, not naked," Lyshunda replied primly. "After all, you can't see any of the ... finer details; it's like you're wearing a very fitted union suit. That's probably why they called it a suit to begin with, but I don't know. Besides, it wouldn't do us any good to wear clothing when suited; it would all be destroyed in battle."

Sylenn froze, cup halfway to her mouth. She lowered it and looked solemnly at Lyshunda.

Satherlin picked up the thread of conversation. "Fortunately, our suits are very sturdy, so we don't need extra protection from clothing. Only the energy blasts from Drones can hurt us at all, and then the blasts have to be pretty strong to do any real damage. We don't get cold or hot, and while we can smell, what we smell seldom bothers us. At least, it doesn't bother us as much as when we're unsuited. Hmm, actually, that there are a few extremes that can hurt us. If you fall into a volcano or a smelter, that can kill you. And I think that if a big enough object falls on you, it can do some damage. But blades and bullets and blows don't do anything to us when we're suited."

Sylenn nodded and chewed on a small sandwich. "Um, how is it that everyone here speaks Ivrithan?"

"We don't, actually," Lyshunda answered. "Several of us have learned it over the years, but most of the people at the Temple have never even heard it. The reason you understand everyone is because you're a Descendant. Again, the Ancients wanted to be certain we could operate together, so they enabled us to ... understand one another at all times. (It is exceptionally frustrating to realize how little we can understand of what the Ancients did to us!)

"But to answer the question behind your question, Sylenn, each of us is actually speaking his or her native language, and we all 'hear' each other as though they were speaking our language. The people of the island often wear confused expressions when they overhear us, as you might imagine. And to anticipate your next question, whenever you speak directly to someone from the island, you're truly using the local language, which has been dubbed 'Temple'. You can, with practice, deliberately say things in any language you choose."

Sylenn frowned. "Does every Descendant know the island language without learning it?"

"Yes," Satherlin replied. "We have to learn other languages to communicate with anyone else in the world, but the Ancients left us a common speech, which the islanders adopted as their own."

Mosin leaned forward. "Silly, what's wrong?"

Not looking up from her pensive stare, Sylenn waved him off. "Nothing. Nothing. It's just strange to me that I think I knew the language before I changed."

"That is possible," Lyshunda allowed. "After all, you were born a Descendant."

Satherlin straightened up. "I wonder ... perhaps we could use that as a test to find unAwakened Descendants."

Lyshunda disagreed. "There's no practical way to do that, Satherlin. We can't be spared to query every person in the world, and I don't think we should risk the people here to the dangers of traveling about, looking for the unAwakened. It's faster to touch them to find them out."

Satherlin sighed and nodded.

After a moment, Sylenn asked, "Why do I have fingers, but not toes? I can fell the toes, but ... None of us have them where they can be seen."

Mosin answered that. "That's another mystery, and we all think it just as strange as you do. We're just used to it, is all."

"Another things to note about our suits," Satherlin added, wiping his stubby fingers and waving at the servants, "is that we can't eat or drink in them. That's why I had us unsuit before they brought the snacks in; we simply don't eat when we're suited up. We don't feel hungry, thirsty, or even very tired until we unsuit. That means that you'll have to be very careful where and when you unsuit, Sylenn. Do so carelessly, and you could leave yourself vulnerable. We can go for days without stopping if we need to, but we still have to take time to rest and refresh ourselves. Never forget that."

He leveled a stern gaze at her, so Sylenn nodded. For some reason, the look on his craggy face stuck in her mind.

"You'll find that there are many Worshippers out there, and that many of them want to be with a Descendant in any way they can. They don't care that we can't ... be 'romantic' when suited. Not all the Worshippers are fanatics, however; some of them are very considerate of us, more supporters than Worshippers. But there will be those who will try--"

"And I'll break their arms," Mosin growled.

"You will not," Satherlin shot back. "You have to allow Sylenn to do this on her own, Mosin. If you constantly protect her, you'll render her incapable of defending herself when you aren't around. Understood?"

Mosin grumbled something passingly resembling an agreement.

Satherlin continued. "There will be those who will try various things, and you must remember that you are a great deal stronger than they are. We're trying to protect Alluvia, not thin out the population."

"Much as we occasionally would like to," Clatyn added sardonically, rapidly emptying the platter in front of him.

"But ... physical relations ... just aren't possible in out suited forms, so you don't have to worry about that. Just be careful when and where you unsuit. If you can, wait until you get back here. Now, let's have you practice some blocks and punches. Clatyn is our Arms expert, such as we have. The Ancients didn't leave us many actual weapons, and human weapons don't work on the Sukkers themselves. But Clat will be able to teach you basic combat and can evaluate what training you need still. Don't worry about getting a stomach cramp; you'll find that it's actually easier to eat a big meal before suiting up for battle; you'll have strength longer. Mosin, over there; now."

Fulenthen was not a natural fighter, but neither was she hopeless. She was actually very good at dodging and evading attacks, which Sonelion threw at her with relish. She balanced on the balls of her feet in a half-crouch, her long, thin tail whipping behind her. The tail grew from the base of her spine, sporting raised rings along its length every two hand-spans and ended in a hairy tuft not unlike a lion. Fulenthen at first refused to strike at Sonelion, who attempted to goad her with both words and openings. The times he landed a blow on Fulenthen, Mosin snarled from his corner (Alleathon had ordered him to remain unsuited). She remained defensive until Alleathon roared at her.

"HIT HIM, Fulenthen!"

Startled, Fulenthen flicked out her tail, which brushed Sonelion's knees, drawing his attention. As he glanced down, her fist connected with his jaw, actually lifting him off the floor a few inches. He stumbled as he landed, then shook his head. Fulenthen's black eyes went huge as she dropped to a crouch.

"Now that's the ticket!" Sonelion crowed as Mosin cheered. "Rang my bell something good there! You keep that up, Sister, and we'll have a fighter in you yet."

Fulenthen glanced at each of them, tail flicking uncertainly.

"You did well, Fulenthen," Alleathon said, walking up to gently clap her on the shoulder. "You didn't really hurt him; remember that I said that the Sukker's blasts are our only weakness? That's true. We can practice on each other without fear of serious damage. At least, to ourselves. The walls, on the other hand ..."

"You can be proud of yourself and your heritage, Fulenthen," Laillmen added, coming up on her other side. "You are one of an elite group, a defender of our world. Don't be ashamed, and don't feel that you need to hold back. The Sukkers deserve no mercy, and we all need to train as hard as we can to be certain to defeat them."

"Once we thought the best we could do was drive them from Alluvia. But with you, Fulenthen, we can actually destroy them." Alleathon smiled at her, solid red eyes bright.

Fulenthen blinked at him, looking back and forth between him and Laillmen. "You mean, with the beast you can destroy them," she said, standing most of the way up.

"Yes," Alleathon admitted, "but you control the Hunter now. It does not control you, am I right?"

Reluctantly, Fulenthen nodded. "Is that why you're training me yourself? You're the leader; you'd have more urgent tasks than a single newcomer. You want to see how the beast acts, don't you?"

Alleathon nodded. "Quite true, but It is not the only reason. In truth, I try to do as much of the training as possible rather than go out into the world. As you said, I do have important tasks, and they will not be done if I am out fighting. New Descendants are not so common that I tire of helping them or that they interrupt my so-important other tasks. Does that satisfy your curiosity?

"Excellent! So, let's keep working you on the basics until lunchtime. After that, we'll take you down to meet Dr. Demney."

### Chapter 7

Dr. Leif Demney ruled the section of the Temple given over to studying the Ancients. By default, this included studying the Descendants of those Ancients. He was the latest in a long line of researchers who had struggled for thousands of years to unravel the mysteries of a race so alien that only in the last century had enough understanding been gained to noticeably contribute to Alluvia's technological development. The devices and powers left behind were based on precepts so contrary to logic that progress came minutely. Demney was determined to increase that pace.

"About time you brought her in," Demney grumbled as Satherlin labored to climb into a chair in the main laboratory. The inter-connected chambers hummed with electricity and mechanicals. Sylenn looked around, feeling her eyes go wide. She'd never seen so many machines at once, and never so many obviously designed by the Ancients. Despite their age, the devices gleamed in the artificial lighting, still doing whatever they had been designed to do.

"We brought her in due time, Doctor," the small man replied calmly, catching his breath.

"As you say, then. Let's see it. Girl! Over here, now!" Demney stabbed a finger at the plain metal table in front of him. Mosin growled softly, earning him a sharp look from both Satherlin and Lyshunda.

Sylenn mutely complied, hopping up on the edge of the table and facing Demney. The doctor began arranging obscure medical instruments on the wheeled cart beside him, occasionally glancing at Sylenn. He was a plain-looking man, probably from Tautona, with pale hair and a fair complexion; Sylenn could "hear" that he was speaking the Island's language and not his own. His light brown eyes were hard as he looked from his tray to Sylenn. Finally he stepped back, put his hands in the pockets of the white coat he wore over his shirt and trousers, and stared at Sylenn.

"Yvenn!" he barked, causing a young woman also wearing a white coat to jump. "Start the data recording engine! Subject is female, approximately nineteen years old, of mixed ancestry. Given name: Sylenn Jenfsen; Descendant name: Fulenthen Sonelion. Reference records of subject Mosin Jenfsen for genetic history. Subject is severely underweight and malnourished. Skin is dry and cracked, hair is shaggy and unkempt. Eyes blood-shot, likely a chronic condition due to poor living. Fingernails are broken and ragged; stained from lack of proper sanitation. Face is hollow and pallid; bones protrude obviously. (stand up now, girl)

"Subject is approximately five feet and six inches tall (when not slouching), slightly built. Clothing hangs off of her. Not healthy at all. Now, we are given to understand that the subject carries a symbiotic creature, acting as its host. Designation of symbiont: Hunter. Symbiont is said to have the ability to hold the symbiont designated Sukker long enough to consume its energy. Principle method of consumption is said to require the host to kill the Sukker host and break open the bones; Sukker energy is said to concentrate in the bone marrow.

"This coincides with past findings regarding location of Sukkers within hosts. Current extraction methods do not coincide with Hunter's said methods, so further data will be required for comparison. (walk over there, girl) Subject appears to have normal perambulatory ability. (Ernel, show her the stretches) Subject appears to have normal flexibility and range of motion. Subject also appears to have an acceptable range of cognition and is able to follow simple orders, in contrast to subjects designated Drones. We will now examine the Descendant form. (go on, girl!)

"Fulenthen Sonelion fits the standard Descendant form. Particulars are: Green and white skin coloration; Green hair bound high on head by means of a band and might reach the floor if unbound; Black eyes; Tail extending from base of spine approximately two yards and marked with raised bands colored deep green and tipped with whisk-like hair. Particular power yet unknown. (have you tested her? hmmf, thought not. walk her through the movements) Subject has normal range of Descendant ability. (go on; change back, girl)

"We will now examine the Hunter's abilities." Demney's gaze bored fiercely into Sylenn, who struggled to retain her composure.

"Go on, then girl; show us the Hunter. Bring It out, now!" Demney waved a hand imperiously. Sylenn's eyes narrowed as she ducked her head. She shuddered minutely. Then she leapt at Demney, pinning him to the floor.

"Want see, want see?" she hissed. Demney's eyes bugged as he struggled. Sylenn held him to the floor with an ease her slight frame shouldn't have managed.

"Hunt," It growled, throwing a glance at the others, who had belatedly come to help. "Hunt! Smell, smell, all here, all smell! Hunt! Master Tesselëan! Give! Give Gontozenels! Said! Not said this," It hissed at Demney, who was still trying to free himself, "not said _this_! HUNT!" With a screech, Sylenn launched herself off of Demney and pelted toward the back of the laboratory.

"She's going for the reservoirs!" Yvenn shrieked, waving her hands helplessly.

"Hold, Hunter!" Alleathon commanded, appearing in front of the frothing girl. She skidded to a halt, bowing to the floor. Shuddering, her head lifted, and Sylenn looked out of her own eyes.

"It-- It retreated. It never did that before," she marveled at Alleathon. In an instant, Satherlin stood there, his head level with Sylenn's.

"Can you control It now?" he asked calmly, placing a hand on her shoulder. She shuddered again, then nodded.

"It really didn't like the Doctor at all," Sylenn mumbled, ducking her gaze. "And this place reeks of ... of Gontozenels. It's desperate to feed on them, and you promised to give It more to eat."

"What?" Demney demanded, stomping up. "Those Sukkers are valuable research subjects! You can't just toss them all away as tidbits to a dog! We don't understand them yet!"

"What's to understand?" Sylenn snapped, glaring at him. "They're using us to fight their war, and most of them don't even get the slightest scratch from doing so! They just phase out to a new host and run amok somewhere else! Besides, didn't you say you wanted to see what the beast can do?"

"What makes you say they don't get a single scratch?" Lyshunda stepped in front of Demney, cutting him off.

"I-- Well, that's what the beast is for; It can hurt them. Isn't it?" Sylenn looked up at them, confused. "You don't actually hurt them, after all. Um ... right?"

"Well, we've never been sure," Clatyn ventured. "Since we can't detect them unless they act out, and we don't have that many Records to fall back on."

"How do you know that we don't hurt them? Did the Hunter tell you that?" Satherlin asked quietly.

"I guess so. It's ... as though I just know it, but I don't know how I know it. Gah!" Sylenn put her head in her hands. "It's hungry! Can't you give It one of those little balls, just to make It quiet?"

"We can do better than that," Satherlin assured her, looking at Lyshunda. She nodded and turned toward the back of the laboratory over Demney's protests.

Lyshunda returned quickly, carrying a metal box with elaborate etchings. She set it on the floor next to Sylenn, who stared at it, eyes huge. After a second, she closed her eyes and took a deep breath. When she opened her eyes, the Hunter gazed out. Hands trembling, It reached for the box and turned it around.

Swiftly, It pressed several spots on the top and sides, causing Demney to gasp loudly. The box hummed slightly, and a portion of the etching on the top sank into the box. A soft, white glow rose from the box; the Descendants stiffened reflexively. Sylenn's hand darted out, holding position just over the glow, which recoiled. Sylenn's face screwed in concentration as she held her position for several minutes.

The others watched tensely.

"It's not dispersing," Mosin whispered.

"No, it isn't," Satherlin replied, intent on Sylenn.

Demney leaned in closer. "How is she doing it? It always disperses when released!"

Sylenn chuckled, a deep, grating sound. "No hunt if gone."

Abruptly, she clenched her hand into a fist, grabbing the glow. She dragged it to her mouth and stuffed it in. The glow continued to flow from the box, and Sylenn continued to drag handfuls of it to herself. The minutes ticked by silently as she devoured the contents of the box with both fists. When the last of the glow disappeared past her teeth, she sighed and leaned her head to the floor.

"Ernel, get the spectrometer!" Demney snapped. The younger man scrambled off. Demney picked up the box, shook it, and examined it from different directions. " _Verdammung_ , how did It do that?"

Ernel dashed back up with the instrument. Demney snatched it and fastened it to the box, adjusting its knobs and dials. He swore again. "It's empty!"

"I think it safe to say that we knew that," Clat commented.

Demney glared at him. "Always use proper scientific methods before stating conclusions!" Clat snorted.

"Sylenn, sweetie, are you alright?" Mosin lightly rubbed his sister's back. She groaned, then slowly sat up.

"Ugh." She slowly shook her head from side to side, weaving slightly. "I feel ... sloshy. It's never eaten that much before ... not since before It lost Its body, when the Tesselëans would feed It from those things. Nngh ... It's been starving for so long; going to take It a bit to digest all that. What, fifty Gontozenels?"

"How--"

"What--"

"You--"

"Shh!" Satherlin made a chopping motion, eyes glued to the young woman who held her head in her hands. "Yes, the box holds the energy from fifty Sukkers. Gontozenels. How many did It usually consume, when It had its body?"

No-one else spoke.

"Nnngh ... Oh, It could eat hundreds at a time, if It could get them. That's why they made the boxes, to hold the Gontzlbe--" She trailed off, quivering. "Feh. Still leaves a rotten taste in my mouth. What-- Why are you all staring at me?"

"We were paying attention; that's all," Lyshunda quickly said. "You were telling us some interesting things about the Hunter."

Sylenn rubbed her forehead. "I was? Ugh, it's so hard to think right now."

"That's alright, sweetie," Mosin soothed, rubbing her back. "You take your time."

"Take her time?" Demney echoed. "There is no time! We need to examine this at once! Get over here, girl, w--hurrk!"

Vyenthon held the Doctor by the front of his white coat, lifting him nearly a yard off the floor. "Have care, Demney, or--"

"Vyenthon! Set the Doctor down!" Alleathon ordered sharply. "This is not acceptable behavior!"

" _His_ is not acceptable behavior!" Vyenthon snarled. Reluctantly, he lowered the Doctor to the floor; Demney looked as indignant as frightened.

"Then you will leave it to me and Laillmen to address that with him, Vyenthon. You will not take it upon yourself to start or participate in violence here in the Temple. Is that understood, Descendant?"

"Very well," came the grudging reply. "But Demney will take care how he treats my sister."

"Yes, we will all take care of Sylenn. And fighting is not being careful! Unsuit, now."

Vyenthon glared meaningfully at Demney, then turned back into Mosin.

Demney straightened his clothes. "If you're quite finished throwing your little tantrum, I'd like to have a look at your sister. If that's alright with you, that is." He matched Mosin's glare. Mosin nodded stiffly and kept his eyes pinned on Demney.

"Very well. Yvenn! Take notes. Subject appears weak and unsteady after the procedure of emptying the holding box ..."

### Chapter 8

The days flowed quickly. Gradually, Sylenn grew more accustomed to her new form. She practiced every morning with the available Descendants and spent each afternoon with Dr. Demney, working to unravel the Hunter's secrets. Learning to control Fulenthen's powers was not particularly difficult; learning to control the Hunter was beyond frustrating. Satherlin had banned Mosin from those afternoon sessions after the second day, sending him out with the others to bring back more Sukkers for the Hunter.

After a few weeks, the Hunter seemed to have realized that It was not in danger. Sylenn still had the best success in drawing information from It after a large feeding, but there were signs of cooperation from the creature. It became easier to communicate with and even began volunteering fragments of information or to do things, such as demonstrate how certain devices operated and additional functions previously lost in history. Eventually, the story of Its origin came out, though they were required to piece the bits together. The Descendants were not as pleased by this revelation as Demney was, for Demney had little concern beyond his research.

The Hunter, matters turned out, was the reason the Gontozenels had turned to human hosts. The Tesselëans had fashioned It to end the stalemate, and It had begun doing so with great effectiveness. To save themselves, the Gontozenels turned to the humans of Alluvia; the Hunter in Its original form could not draw them out of a host body. Before the Hunter, there had been no need to involve the inhabitants of Alluvia in the extra-terrestrial war.

The Tesselëans had then created the extraction devices, such as the metal balls the Descendants now carried on bandoleers, and the storage containers. Demney's lab held those containers now, and after learning the original purpose for them, it was glaringly obvious that the entire setup was a massive feeding mechanism for the Hunter. This information did _not_ please the doctor.

The Gontozenels had fought back, channeling their life energies through their hosts, creating blasts that devastated the Tesselëan ranks. The Tesselëans had just begun to develop body armor when a combined blast from multiple Drones caught the Hunter. Wounded, disoriented, and actually thrown from the planet by the explosion, the creature had floated in deep space until latching onto an asteroid headed in the general direction It wanted to go. After thousands of years, It had returned to finish Its Masters' work. Deprived of Its body but not of Its orders, It used the Gontozenels' own methods to carry out those mandates.

Nearly two months after she Awakened, Sylenn was able to pass along the last shard of the story, the part least appealing to her "Siblings". The Hunter was a victim.

What It had been originally, Sylenn could not understand. The creature the Hunter had been born as had lived with Its own kind far away from Alluvia, far away from wherever the Tesselëans and Gontozenels came from. The Tesselëans had captured It and adjusted Its body, mind, and even Its living nature so that It could not stop feeding on the Gontozenels. Its life energy had been somehow reconstructed so that It could not die, whether It had a body or not. The whole of Its existence was now to consume and destroy the Ancients' enemies. It lived-- rather, It existed in perpetual hunger, perpetual hate, and perpetual anguish.

"I don't feel sorry for It," Sylenn confided to Konyetta one evening as they sat in the darkening garden.

"Why not, honey?" Konyetta twirled a leaf in her fingers as she glanced at Sylenn.

"I'm a prisoner, too. I mean, actually, aren't we all?" She picked at the grass, refusing to look at Konyetta, who furrowed her brow.

"What do you mean?"

"The beast might be a slave to the Ancients, but It made me its slave. I have to do whatever It wants. If I fight It or disobey, It punishes me any way It can. I don't get to live my own life." Sylenn picked a leaf off a plant and stripped it absently.

"Sure you do, Sylenn!" Konyetta encouraged her. "Now that you're a Descendant, the Hunter has to obey you. It's not forcing you to do anything anymore."

"Yes It is," Sylenn replied bitterly. "I still have to feed It. It still wants to hunt. Just eating the stored Sukkers here isn't enough; It _has_ to hunt them, too. It's quiet now, but I can feel It burning in my head, in my chest. I get so anxious, and that's because It wants to leave here and go find them."

"Oh, honey, I'm so sorry it's so hard for you. But it is easier now, right? Being a Descendant helps, doesn't it?" Konyetta wished that she could lay a comforting hand on the younger woman's shoulders, but Sylenn did not encourage physical contact, however safe it now was.

"Not really," Sylenn said quietly, resting her head on her knees. "I just went from one prison to another. Descendants are as much slaves to the Ancients as the beast is."

Konyetta giggled sympathetically. "Oh, I know what you mean! It just takes some getting used to, but it's not anything as bad as slavery. Yes, we have the desire built into us to save our people, and it does tend to ... well, interrupt the life we'd thought we'd have, but that life wasn't right for us anyway. We all are born with the desire to save Alluvia and Humanity. Anything else that we were doing before we Awakened was a poor attempt compared to what we can do now! But I know what you mean when you say it feels like you're being forced to make the change.

"Now me, I didn't care about being Awakened one way or the other, really. I enjoyed my life before, but I'd always felt like I was supposed to do more than I could. I just didn't know how! I knew I had to try, so as soon as I turned sixteen (that's the age limit here on the Island), I marched right up to the Temple and found Kyysha and grabbed hold of her! It was so wonderful to finally know that I could help save Alluvia as a Descendant!

"But you should have seen Tad! He was a devout Pontifist and an active Contemptor (he's still a Pontifist). We Awakened about the same time, even though he's a lot older than me. We both were in the right place at the right time, and our blood showed through. But Tad, he was so miserable that we thought he was going to do himself some harm before he adjusted to it all. He's fine now, but you'll see him brood about it. Poor thing.

"And poor Kylle! He moped for months because his fiancée refused to marry him just because he'd Awakened. He never knew she felt like that; it simply hadn't come up before. But when it came down to it, she was a Contemptor at heart. And she didn't love him enough to overcome it. It was so sad. They'd been sweethearts for years and years, and she just left him standing there. He might not look it, but Kylle is very sweet and gentle. It's taken him just years to get over her. But I think he's finally ready to love again!" Konyetta giggled softly. "And don't you ever tell, but I just know that he's been looking at your Twanne! They'd be perfect, don't you think?"

Sylenn grunted softly, wondering how much longer the other woman, barely a year older, was going to natter on like a convent school-girl. Apparently it was going to be a while.

"Some of us really liked being Awakened, though; it was a vast improvement for them. Hae, you know, was living on the streets of Atheves in Vanautue. This was the best thing that had ever happened to her. She got safety, food, and a purpose. And real friends who wouldn't try to kill her, like those awful street-folk she had to live with before.

"Dainon Mutemuthen was the only person who'd ever been nice to her, so when things got really bad, she naturally just ran to the safe-house he'd told her about. She had to wait three days, you know, but he finally showed up and that was that! Well, they didn't marry, if that's what you're wondering; Hong was really too old for her. But Hae found herself a _real_ _prince_ who gave up everything to be with her! It was so romantic!

"And Kyysha, she was just the shyest thing before she bumped into Hae (and that's a story! I'll tell you later). She and her family were refugees from Maottey; they don't know if any of their relatives there are still alive. They lived in Firez, in Vanautue, and there weren't any other Maotteyans around, so it was really very lonely for them! And poor Kyysha, she wanted to get an education, but she just couldn't face the stern teachers, so she took classes by correspondence. She must have done well, because her teacher proposed to her! And they hadn't even met in person!" Konyetta sighed, eyes turned to the lingering sunset outside the Temple. After a moment, she continued.

"Misselon Faverothen, who lived about two hundred seventy-five years back, was an invalid (and my many-times grandfather!). He'd been injured as a young boy and couldn't get out of bed. Awakening meant he got to walk for the first time in years, and suiting was the only time he ever got out of bed. He had to be very careful when unsuiting, as you can imagine. You should go to the archives and read up on our history; it's really very interesting! All the Doctors loved him because he would stay suited for ever so long, and they could take just all kinds of measurements from him.

"But I do feel so sorry for Quiana; she's from Qina, you know, and they don't let their women do anything but have babies and serve their husbands. Really, and in this modern day and age! Quiana's family didn't quite disown her for Awakening (like poor Tad's did), but they have been just hateful to her! And her husband was forced to come with her, and he hates it here. He's so jealous of Satherlin because Quiana obeys him, but anyone can see that she hasn't forgotten that Risheri is her husband! She does everything for him, even though she's as busy as the rest of us, tracking down Sukkers and all.

"Oh, and her poor daughters; they want to marry men from Qina, but no-one will marry them because of their mother! Quiana would just love to have grand-babies, but that just doesn't seem like it's ever going to happen. But even with all that, she's accepted being a Descendant and I just know that she enjoys being able to help!

"And even Tad found that he liked it, once he got used to it. He's the kind of man who needs a driving purpose in life. In Berziny, his purpose was serving the Pontifist church and hating the Descendants as unnatural beings spawned by evil daemons. Once he realized that we aren't evil, he found a purpose in saving Alluvia and taking care of all those small details that crop up whenever you have a bunch of people to take care of. He's so good with organizing and making sure that everyone is where they're supposed to be and has everything they need. Why, even Momma Merle listens to him! He'd make a good leader when Satherlin steps down." Konyetta sighed and twiddled the grass between her feet.

"Is Satherlin--" Sylenn began, then stopped, glancing down.

"Hmm? Oh, no, he's fine! He won't be stepping down anytime soon, God willing! And really, Lyshunda is his pick to be our leader next, and she's just wonderful. I was just telling you about Tad, that's all. But we do all worry about Satherlin's health. Most dwarves don't live that long, you now, and they always have pain from their joints. Satherlin's only a little old, but he is getting up there. We hope he'll be with us for many years yet, but, well ... you never know. His dwarfishness could weaken him, or he could be killed in battle. It does happen." she glanced quickly at Sylenn, who studied the fresh leaf she'd picked. A few birds chattered sleepily in the evening gloom.

"Do Descendants die often in battle?" Sylenn asked after a while.

"Well, no, not often." Konyetta rubbed her hands together. "But it's not uncommon for someone to be killed once every ... oh, ten years or so. Not usually more often than that, though there was one time when three Descendants died within a month of each other. But that was a long time ago, maybe a thousand years? Once, we went nearly two hundred years without a battle-death. Which is good, since we don't get many new Descendants. Mosin was the last one before you, and that was two years ago. If only the Ancients had left us some way to find the others! It's just so frustrating knowing that there simply must be other unAwakened Descendants out there, who are born and live and die without ever knowing it!"

"It could find them," Sylenn murmured.

"What?" Konyetta sat up straight. "You're saying the Hunter could find other Descendants?"

"Yes," Sylenn sighed. "It knew that all of you were Descendants, and It knows what the Sukkers smell like. I remember now, sometimes It would shy away from someone on the street for no reason. Kind of felt like it did when I walked into the common room and you were all there. Like ... a little bit of fear, if It were discovered, or something. Makes sense, if It knew that you're Its masters."

"But-- that's wonderful!" Konyetta rocked up onto her knees and grabbed Sylenn in a hug. "If we can detect unAwakened Descendants, then we'll have more people to fight the Sukkers! We can drive them back, dig up their hiding places! Oh, Sylenn, this just is wonderful!"

"What's wonderful?" Satherlin's shadow limped toward them across the neat grass. Mosin followed close behind him, looking anxiously at his sister.

"Sylenn says that the Hunter can identify unAwakened Descendants!" Konyetta cried happily.

"That is wonderful!" Satherlin said, face lighting up.

"Really, Silly?" Mosin exclaimed, dropping down next to her. "That's great! You're such a big help!" Sylenn tolerated the one-armed hug.

### Chapter 9

"I can't believe it's been three months since we found you, Sylenn!" Mosin enthused as he walked arm-in-arm with his sister out of the Temple. "And now it's time to introduce you to the rest of the world. Wow; you grew up fast, kid!" He winked and jostled her playfully.

"Yes, and I can even walk on my own, you know," Sylenn grumbled back. Mosin stared for a second, then let go of her arm.

"Sorry; I was just--"

"Sylenn," Satherlin called from up ahead. "Would you join me, please?"

Sylenn left her brother and jogged slightly to catch up with Satherlin, who led the entire group of Descendants through the town to the guest building that held the lifts to the garages. The Islanders politely stepped aside and made quiet greetings, which many of the Descendants returned. Satherlin stood on a tiny, three-wheeled platform that hummed with electrical power, enabling his to move faster than he could walk. The pace he'd set was brisk for those with healthy legs, leaving Sylenn to wonder how fast the little cart could truly go.

"Thank you, my dear. I know you've been out around the Island several times already, but you haven't been back to the rest of the world yet. I wanted to make sure you knew how we travel from place to place."

"I had wondered," Sylenn offered wryly. "You did manage to get me from downtown Casserion to an island on the other side of the world in less than an hour."

Satherlin chuckled. "That's the Ancients for you. They left a network of transportation platforms all over the planet; there's one no less than every thousand leagues in any direction on the continents and at least one in every group of islands. Just like the Temple, they're hidden by science so that no-one can accidentally wander into them. In fact, that's where most legends of forbidden places come from; people couldn't get to them, so they invented reasons for it. They're all over the world, and they all connect here, in the garage under the Temple. If you're interested, later you can go examine all the machinery. Perhaps the Hunter will be able to give us some insight on how that all works."

Sylenn shook her head. "I don't think so; It doesn't seem to understand the Ancients any better than It understands us."

"But it knew how to work the containment devices," Lyshunda commented from her place on Satherlin's other side.

"That's because It had to use them," Sylenn replied, darting a glance from under her hair, which was loosely pulled back to the nape of her neck. "Beyond that, It doesn't care about the machines at all."

"I see," Satherlin grunted. "Oh well, can't have everything. So, here's the lift. Let's all go down, then, shall we?"

When they reached the garage, Satherlin lead them across the vast space, retracing the route Len had taken Sylenn three months before. Now that she was facing that direction, Sylenn could see something ... a design of some sort on the far wall. As they rounded the last line of parked electrical wagons, she saw the floor in front of the wall also had a design on it; there was more of the swirled etching she'd come to know from the devices. Staring at the patterns made her eyes swim and tear up, so she blinked and looked away.

"This is the main transport platform," Satherlin announced. "Niel, since you're our resident expert on them, I'll let you give Sylenn the explanations."

Niel grinned and strode forward. "My thanks, sir! Sylenn, it's really not difficult to use these. Well, provided you're a Descendant. Others have to do a bit to get through, but for us, it's as simple as walking forward. Now, to choose your destination, you have to call up the map. Allow me to demonstrate."

Niel stepped onto the design and walked to the center of it, facing the etched wall. "You'll need to be suited to do this," he added, becoming Heleathon Thayen, whose body was a solid yellow and boasted dark red hair cropped on the top and flowing down his neck to his shoulder blades, "and you'll face the wall. Just think about the map, and it appears."

The etched wall suddenly glowed with thousands of small dots. "It's easier to understand if you're suited," he said over his shoulder. Guiltily, Sylenn complied; she'd been distracted once again by his hairstyle, which had led her to think about Kylle's own massive sideburns when he was Naichen. The variations on each Descendant could be ... strange. Suddenly, her eyes could see that the etchings glowed underneath the dots, and she could discern that it was a complex, impossibly detailed map of the entirety of Alluvia. It was topographical, showing land-masses, rivers, mountains, oceans without water, and no country borders or cities.

"One of the incredible things about this map is its ability to constantly update as the world changes," Heleathon enthused. "We know that Alluvia has changed because our predecessors made other maps based on this one, and they're different from this now. At first, we thought that there was some mistake, that either the cartographers had erred or there was a problem with this map. But we went out and looked, and true enough, Alluvia was changing. Very slowly, but changing.

"Um, back to the task at hand. Next, select what place you want to go to. This green dot is the Temple; it will always be green, no matter where you are in the world. When you're not at the Temple, your location will show as a blue dot. If a dot is violet, that means there's a problem with the platform there. You can see that there are a lot of violet dots. The Sukkers managed to destroy many of the platforms, usually by concentrated blasts or artillery barrage. They would just lob stones or other missiles in the general direction of the platform until it broke. And we don't know how to fix them.

"But there are still a great many working platforms. As it happens, every major city around the world has one. We theorize that each city was built because there was a platform there. Some of the archives record that, so we assume this applies to all of them. Most of the platforms, however, are not around any settled areas. This makes it far easier to move around, let me assure you. It always causes a scene when we appear out of nowhere, so we prefer being able to do so with no witnesses.

"Now that you've decided where you want to go, you think about that place. You'll get to know the platforms, have no fear. We have a comprehensive list that you may look at whenever you wish, but the Ancients thoughtfully left us all with the ability to figure it out on our own, as well. Today, we're going to Suljem, Ivrithan's capital, so that we may formally introduce you to the world (it's the most neutral country towards us). We're hosting a press conference at the Parliament House, which is actually where the platform is. Rather, it's in the basement of the Parliament House. This will allow us to make that unseen entrance we were speaking of. Alright, Fulenthen, why don't you do the honors?"

Face blank, Fulenthen nodded and stepped forward, taking Heleathon's place on the now-blank diagram. The press conference was today, now? The one to tell the world about her? They hadn't told her when it would be beforehand, letting her fall into a kind of security, hoping that they might forget to do this. They'd waited three months not only to give her time to acclimate to her new situation but also to give the attendees time to arrive. Ordinary people were limited to traditional methods of travel, after all. It made horrible sense. And with all the Descendants surrounding her, she couldn't easily return to the Temple.

Shifting to settle herself and feeling her tail flick behind her, Fulenthen looked up at the wall. Without quite knowing how, she called up the map and stared at the innumerable dots. She remembered her basic geography enough to know where Ivrithan was, but exactly where Suljem was, she didn't know. Her brow creased slightly as she thought. One dot on the eastern side of Ivrithan flared, and the map disappeared. With it, the entire section of the wall vanished.

In its place was another room, with another etched floor exactly like the one she stood on. The ceiling was considerably lower, barely a third of a yard above her head; her hair would brush against it when she walked in. Beyond the platform area were two guards in Ivrithan national uniforms, carrying the latest automated rifles. Both snapped the guns to the ready as soon as the wall vanished. When they saw her standing there, they relaxed slightly. Behind them stood two large doors reaching from floor to ceiling, which were closed.

"Excellent work, Sister," Alleathon said quietly, coming up behind her and placing a hand on her shoulder. Fulenthen glanced back at him; he wore an easy smile, which she timidly returned. It was no longer so disorienting to be able to look his directly in the eye when she remembered that his real form came barely to her real waist. "Now come, we have people to meet before the conference. And do not be afraid," he added in a whisper. "We are all here; nothing will harm you."

Fulenthen nodded as Alleathon and Laillmen walked past her. Ordinarily, she had been informed, Lithilon Xaylen and Sonelion Ryalen (Tad and Clatyn) would have walked behind them, as the next in rank. Lithilon curtly motioned her ahead; since this was her day, she realized that she now had the honor. She could have done without it and not been sad.

The guards saluted as they drew near, coming to strict attention. "Sir!" the one on the right addressed Alleathon in crisp Ivrithan typical of the northern settlements. "President Beythan awaits you all upstairs. I'll escort you up at once."

"Our thanks, Lieutenant," Alleathon replied warmly. As they followed the soldier through the doorway, another slipped in to fill his place in the room, relieving him of his weapon. Fulenthen noted there were several more in the hall just outside the room, all of whom spared only a professional glance for the Descendants.

The trip through the Parliament building failed to impress Fulenthen, who was carefully not panicking at the impending exhibition before who knew how many strangers. She'd lived so long in the shadows, desperately trying not to be seen. From behind her, she heard Kiemelen Navvason (Konyetta) whisper, "We're right here with you. We're with you."

"Yes," Vyenthon also whispered, trusting her heightened hearing. "You've always got us."

She nodded slightly to let them know she'd heard. Then she worked to breathe calmly. It helped that the suit also brought a kind of cool logic to the world. Every time she summoned her Ancient "father's" name, she felt her emotions wash away. Not entirely, as her present struggle clearly showed, but far more than she had ever accomplished on her own. Demney said this was to help them in battle, since fighting people seemed to get so heated up and careless. At least the facade gave her far more calm than thinking of her human father.

The first several minutes of their walk was through empty corridors with plain walls and simple gas light fixtures. After the second staircase, however, they began to see other people. Most of those were cleaning crew, who simply nodded at the Descendants and continued working. The first errand-boy, a young man of some twenty years, however, flattened himself against the wall with a gasp, dropping half the stack of papers he'd been carrying. Alleathon ignored him and continued on, with the other Descendants following his lead. Fulenthen stretched her ears to listen after they had passed, since turning to look probably would not have been in good form.

"Did you see them? It was them! They're really here! And that one, the new one-- she has a tail!" He sounded flabbergasted but not (entirely) fearful. Fulenthen switched her tail self-consciously, eliciting another gasp as she rounded the corner.

"You're doing fine," Laillmen whispered over her shoulder, slowing just enough that Fulenthen could casually come up beside her. "Nothing to worry about."

"I'm walking around in public with no clothes on, and there's nothing to worry about?" Fulenthen hissed back.

"That's true," Laillmen whispered back with a tiny chuckle. "I still don't like it, if that's any consolation. I still have to remind myself to not try to cover up every time. You get used to it, but there's no rule that you have to like it. My mother still gets upset whenever I go to visit, though she, too, has become accustomed to it. Most of us don't really enjoy it."

"That's a relief," Fulenthen muttered as they climbed another set of stairs, this one ornamented with carved banisters and slabs of marble tile, leading up to a grand mezzanine filled with people. The architecture recalled earlier eras and blended them with modern functionality: gas lamps, electrical chandeliers, and fashionable decorations. Fulenthen had never paid great attention to style, so she wasn't certain how well it matched. She felt completely out of place in the formal setting, and the difference in heights didn't help that at all. Towering over the humans made her that much more the target.

The loud, buzzing chatter halted as the people caught sight of the Descendants climbing the stairs. It started up again almost immediately, quieter and more urgent as the group passed by. Looking around as stealthily as she could, Fulenthen noted there were only one or two women in the whole group, and they did not appear to be there to work. One who stood fairly close to where the lieutenant led the Descendants was carrying papers and had the harried look of a secretary, so she was perhaps the exception. The others were dressed elegantly, as though for an afternoon social function. And perhaps they were; Konyetta had said that new Descendants appeared but rarely.

Having crossed the mezzanine, the group followed the guard down a wide, well-furnished hall-way paneled in dark wood, lit with electrical lights, sparsely lined with carved doors set with engraved brass plaques, and high enough ceilings that Fulenthen no longer felt so cramped. Around another corner, they passed another pair of guards, who came to attention and allowed them to pass without comment; the lieutenant shared a salute with them. This was a shorter hall-way that ended in another pair of doors, which opened as they approached. Fulenthen wished she had saliva in her mouth so that she could swallow some of her nerves.

### Chapter 10

As Alleathon passed through the elaborate doors, someone called out, "The Descendants of the Ancients!" The small crowd gathered inside, however, hardly needed the formality. They had turned toward the doors, possibly before they had even opened, and stared eagerly at the new arrivals. Fulenthen forced her hands to remain uncurled at her sides.

"Alleathon Naichen; good to see you again, sir!" a man said, walking forward out of the crowd. He wore a simple yet fashionable suit and had his greying hair and beard neatly trimmed and combed. This had to be Michale Beythan, the president of Ivrithan.

"President Beythan, a pleasure to meet you again, as well," Alleathon greeted him warmly, his large hand dwarfing the president's normal-sized hand. "If I may circumvent ceremony, my lord president, allow me to introduce our new sister, Fulenthen Sonelion." He turned to gesture to her.

Stepping forward deliberately, Fulenthen nodded the way she'd seen the others do and reached her hand out. She wasn't sure if she should hold it to be kissed, as was Ivrithan custom, or shake it as a man would. Beythan answered the question by taking her hand in a firm shake.

"Delighted to meet you, Fulenthen Sonelion," he said firmly, looking up to her eyes. "May I say that I personally appreciate all that you and the rest of the Descendants do to protect this country and her allies." A few of the bystanders shifted at that; Fulenthen suddenly recalled that Ivrithan officially maintained a neutral opinion of the Descendants.

"I know you must be nervous and ready to get all this ceremony over with," Beythan continued, neatly avoiding the more obvious sources of unease, "and we won't keep you in suspense. Now that you're here, we're just waiting for the program master to tell us that everything is ready, and we'll be done with this." He beamed up at her.

Fulenthen managed a small smile, but she was distracted. Even her nervousness had melted away. There was something ... she couldn't quite name the feeling, but something in this room bothered her. No. Something bothered the beast, though It remained curled and hidden. The creature smelled something that It didn't like ... Fulenthen pretended to pay attention as Laillmen stepped forward to greet the president, allowing her to step back into the group. Trying not to be obvious, Fulenthen scanned the room.

All the gathered dignitaries seemed normal humans. Men in suits smoked fine cigars, two women in afternoon gowns and hats sipped daintily on chilled drinks, servants and guards scattered through the subtle clumps of status. A massive desk squatted against the far wall under the windows, ignoring the pair of settees holding court on the other side of the spacious room with armchairs flanking them protectively. Artwork lent aesthetics and dignity to the richly paneled walls, which boasted only electrical lamps now dark in the presence of day ... what was It sensing?

Fulenthen closed her eyes and inhaled deeply, taking in the light sweat of well-washed bodies, soaps and perfumes atop that, the tang of herbal smoke and bite of strong liquor, old dust hiding in corners and upholstery, cloth and thread and metal buttons ...

Her black eyes snapped open, but she did not look at anything in the room. She did not see the concerned gazes of her erstwhile Siblings, though she heard the rustle of their bare feet on the thick carpet. She did not see the sunlight pouring through the windows, though the warmth bathed her hard skin. She did not see the servant passing less than a yard from her, though she could smell the wine he carried and heard the glasses clink.

She saw only the abyss within her, where the Hunter dwelled, where It hid from her. She reached for It, yanking It forward into her mind. If there were sound inside of her, the Hunter might have yelped in surprise; she could certainly feel Its shock. She was shocked at herself for deliberately calling It forth, but It had senses she did not. Silently, she commanded It.

_Find it. Don't do anything, but find it!_ She had the sensation that It was startled, but It swiftly complied. In seconds, It zeroed in on one of the women, who stood the farthest from the Descendants and looked at them with skillfully veiled disdain. She chatted with two men who also shot careful glances at the giants in their midst, unaware that they had the full attention of one. The smell wasn't the woman, actually, but it was on her--

"My lord president," a strong voice cut through the chatter (and concentration), "lord and lady Descendants, honored guests; we are ready to begin the presentation." The uniformed man standing in the doorway bowed deeply toward the president.

"Excellent!" Beythan clasped his hands in a business-like fashion, the opened them invitingly to the group. "Shall we, then?"

They trooped back down the corridors, crossed the mezzanine to the facing hall-way, and walked down its length. Another staircase (down this time), more halls, and Fulenthen could hear the distant roar of massed voices. Her hands clenched.

"It's alright," Kiemelen whispered from behind her.

"You're doing fine," Vyenthon added quietly. "We're here."

Fulenthen nodded minutely and kept walking. They approached a wall of windows overlooking the city; as they drew closer, she could see a set of tall glass doors leading out to a wide balcony. The doors were thrown open, allowing the noise of a large crowd to pour through. A breeze drifted in with the clamor, bringing Fulenthen to an abrupt halt.

"What's the matter?" Vyenthon came to her side in an instant, his unbound green hair swaying from his rush.

Fulenthen said nothing as her body shook slightly, fists slowly uncurling into claws. Her wide nostrils flared as she struggled to breathe normally. Her black eyes took on a new glint as her lips slowly curled back.

"The Hunter?" Alleathon asked _sotto voce_ , casually turning back to her. Dimly, Fulenthen was aware that the normal humans had also stopped and looked at them with confusion. She nodded jerkily and took a slow breath.

"Out there," she whispered through clenched teeth. "There are ... so many of them ... out there. I'm working to hold It back ... but I don't know ..."

"Take ease," Alleathon immediately replied. "We will take them, and the Hunter will have them. In due time and if It cooperates with us."

Fulenthen flashed a shocked look at him. Alleathon bared his teeth. "Yes, I am serious. Our duty is to protect Alluvia and destroy the Sukkers. Public appearances notwithstanding, we do our duty. We would like to avoid causing a panic, so the Hunter must work with us and await our commands. Will It do so?"

Fulenthen clenched her jaw, bright eyes gazing inward. After a few moments, she nodded. "I've got It under control. For now. But don't wait too long."

Senses heightened with the Hunter's hunger, Fulenthen dimly heard a high-pitched voice whisper. "Goodness; seems that she's had a bout of nerves. I do wonder if the poor thing is sturdy enough for this."

Alleathon gave Fulenthen his own nod and turned back toward the humans. As he made some cheerful excuse, Sonelion slid up beside Fulenthen.

"Here," he whispered, slipping a bandoleer around her waist. "The smallest balls give off a color upon impact; you can use them to mark the Drones. Remember what we practiced; your aim will be true as long as you stay calm and focus. Try to tag as many as you can, and we will fetch them for you. Any of them that are close, you can grab. Use the larger balls to drain them; aim for the head. Tell the Hunter to wait, and It will get Its feast in time. The more we can gather, the more It will get. Tell It, Sister; tell It carefully. Demney's a bastard, but I know he's been helping you communicate with It. If It will be patient and wait, It will be rewarded."

Rigidly, she nodded. fingers straying to the bandoleer. Sonelion continued to whisper instructions as Alleathon motioned to them.

The group moved toward the open doors now. Fulenthen moved jerkily, fighting for outward calm, to stay in place and not leap into the crowd that unfurled before her eyes as she stepped out onto the marble-paved balcony. Several hundred people gathered in the square in front of the Parliament House; the roar of their conversation crashed over her with near physical force. The smell poured into her lungs, driving the Hunter into a froth. She sternly rebuked It, cajoled It (much as that galled her), and ordered It to obey. She had no pockets to hide her hands in, so she hooked her fingers onto the bandoleer, her fingers brushing the round items stored there.

The beast abruptly stilled, leaving her cold and trying to remember how to breathe. It knew those things. It used her eyes to dart a glance down at them, felt their shape though her fingers. Fulenthen took advantage of Its distraction to focus on what was happening outside her head.

"--troduce Alleathon Naichen, who will make our newest Descendant known to you," Beythan finished, waving one arm grandly toward the Descendants'' leader. Alleathon stepped up to the podium as a servant in Parliament garb hastily adjusted the metal pole that held one of the new voice amplifiers that had become popular while Sylenn was roaming the streets. Alleathon slowed his approach to give the servant enough time to finished the adjustment and shot him a quick smile. The ... micro-phone now tall enough to reach his face, Alleathon calmly spoke into it.

"I greet you, people of Ivrithan and of Alluvia. We are met here to make known and welcome the newest Descendant to join in the defense of our world. It is ever our mission to protect our world and overcome those who seek to destroy her people, and we welcome all who stand with us in this effort, no matter who they are or how they assist. The one I introduce to you today joins this cause on its foremost battle lines, placing her life at risk for the sake of yours. Please join me in in welcoming Fulenthen Sonelion."

She could do this. They had practiced, talked about it, pretended. Even if she hadn't known until an hour ago that today was the day, she knew what she had to do. She stepped forward, ignoring the roar of the crowd. There! And there! There and there and there! Silently, she marked them, suddenly glad that her bizarre eyes gave so little hint of her thoughts, of where she glanced. The beast strained within her but remained still.

Fulenthen bowed to the crowd from Alleathon's side. A few minutes more, that was all. She needed to answer perhaps a few questions, be polite for just a little bit, and then--

"Yes, sir," Alleathon broke into her thoughts, pointing at a man in the crowd who wore a small white plaque in his dark hat, declaring him a pressman. "Your name and question?"

"Walley Bujle, Vanautue Lettere di Giorni. Signorina Fulenthen, which Descendant Awakened you, and can you tell us your first thoughts when you discovered you were a Descendant?"

Fulenthen unclenched her jaw and stepped sideways to the unfamiliar micro-phone. Mimicking Alleathon as much as possible, she answered the man, who was not contaminated. "Vyenthon Nenkthen. I was surprised." The beast caught the wind again and whimpered in her mind, so she stepped back to control It.

Bujle frowned, but Alleathon picked another waving hand out of the crowd. Fulenthen didn't bother hearing his name.

"--told that you were discovered in Casserion; are you from there?"

"No." _Be still! Cooperate with us, and you'll eat yourself sick tonight!_

"How did it happen?"

"On accident."

"What's your opinion on the trade war in southern Deliana?"

"I have none." _Oh, be still! Just a little longer! Just a little longer!_

"Are you married?" That brough jeers from the crowd.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Tellers," Alleathon interjected sternly, "but that is an inappropriate question."

A not-quite whisper sliced through the crowd, straight into her ears. "Well, she's a communicative thing, isn't she?"

"Jerell, shush!! What is wrong with you? Honestly, you've been so terrible this past month, and this is no time to be snide!" Fulenthen's gaze arrowed in on the man and woman standing near the front of the crowd, just behind the line of guards. They both wore press plaques on their hats, though hers looked oddly out of place on the dainty felt cap. The man's expression twisted slightly as he glanced at the woman. His retort died on his lips when he realized that Fulenthen had pinned him with her gaze.

Slowly, she lifted her arm and pointed at him. Contaminated. _Hunt._

The beast froze inside her, poised to spring.

He recovered quickly. "Jerell Graig, Ivrithan Today. Tell me, Fulenthen Sonelion; what is your special power? What fantastic thing can you do that no-one else can?" It was a jeer, a dare. The Sukker didn't realize that she could smell it, that it was not hidden from her eyes. It could pass off its brashness as skepticism, as a refusal to be taken in by these god-like Descendants and their claims of superiority. It was a common attitude.

Some of the Descendants shifted slightly, both at the man's condescension and with slight unease at his question. They hadn't yet discovered Fulenthen's special ability, though they had tried numerous tests. Her tail did give her better balance, and she was quite agile, but it was hardly enough to call a Power.

Fulenthen closed her eyes and begged the creature to cooperate. _Damn you, beast; cooperate!_

"Would you like to see?" The words slid out of her mouth involuntarily, a hiss amplified by the micro-phone. "Would you all like to see?" The Descendants tensed behind her; It could feel them, and It did not care.

The crowd roared in approval; the contaminated in the front joining in. The woman frowned prettily, darting glances of confusion and concern at him.

Fulenthen's hand strayed to the bandoleer again, and the beast stilled once more. Suddenly, warmth blossomed in Fulenthen's chest. After a second, she knew why that was.

Understanding. The beast understood. It had grasped her intention, the Descendants' intention to help It hunt. Images, hazy and oddly-formed, flashed through her mind, of times long gone when other strange creatures had helped It hunt, and trained It to wait to feed until there were many to feed on.

Her eyes flicked open, spearing the man. He froze, the grin dying on his lips.

"You ask what it is I do, Gontozenel?" she asked, her own lips slitting hungrily. He started visibly, taking a step back, bumping into the man behind him.

"I HUNT."

### Chapter 11

_She leaps from the balcony, straight into the air above the crowd, which cannot possibly respond in time. The people seem frozen as she gently floats over them. Her hands tug the marker devices from the bandoleer, cradling them between her fingers. The crowd, the prey in their contaminated hosts, has not moved yet. Lazily, carefully, It_ _flicks her wrists._

_The little missiles whistle cheerfully through the air, trailing their high-pitched cries as they speed toward their targets. Its grin becomes wider, baring her teeth and gums as she reaches for another handful. These, too, sing merrily as they fly. Another double-handful-- It_ _frowns. There are not enough. Not enough markers for all the marks. Rage and anguish well up, and she tamps them down. If not now, then later, she promises. This is only the beginning. It accepts her soothing, but It_ _does not like it._

_The first missiles have not traveled halfway to their destinations, but that is because It_ _aimed for those farthest away. The second volley is halfway to its conclusion. The third, partial volley speeds toward more of the contaminated as she reaches the height of her jump and begins to fall on her primary target._

The crowd has had enough time, a few seconds, to begin to react. Shocked inhalations are all they have managed when the first missile strikes. This is immediately followed by a dozen more in rapid succession. Dimly, she is aware that some in the crowd now bear bright orange smears on their heads and faces, but that is of no consequence to It. Let the others gather them; that is their task. Hers is yet to come. It reaches for the bandoleer again, this time drawing forth the larger balls.

The contaminated respond the quickest, but they are not quick enough. They are never quick enough. The Hunter is always faster, and now It has a partner in Its Mistress. One, two, three, four, five, six ... the containment balls, the means of imprisonment, scream through the air, expanding and striking heads with easy precision. As she descends, the human screams begin. Fear, shock, terror ... rage, despair. The second barrage completes its mission, draining the energies of the enemy, holding that delicious essence fast within mechanical chambers. By the time she lands, she has caused the collapse of over a dozen individuals in the crowd. By the time It lands, It knows the other Masters are fast collecting the rest. No, not all of the rest; merely the ones They had had enough missiles to paint. That would be enough. And there would be more later. Yes, many more.

They land easily on the cobbles, merely five seconds after leaving the balcony. The human woman screams, clutching the arm of the contaminated, which snarls and shoves her to the pavement. He places his hands to his chest; they glow softly. Thrusting them outward, he fires a blast of white energy point-blank at the Descendant in front of him.

He blinks, grimace frozen. Where did it go? The blast went true, yet the Descendant still stands in front of him, languid and self-satisfied. He felt the Power leave him, so--

He takes another look at her, then another. That face ... that expression is not right. It is not true of the illegitimate ones. A memory surfaces, one that is not his. The memory is vague. The terror that accompanies it is clear. He does not have time to scream before a large hand grasps him by the throat, lifting him from the pavement.

They hold their prey easily, dangling it, savoring the terror. So much better when prey are afraid, so much sweeter. This part of satisfying the craving was the prey's punishment for wrongs aeons past. And now, They would taste that punishment.

NO! She freezes, holding Their prize above the ground, above the sobbing woman, above the brave souls who did not flee. Or could not flee. No, there is no need to destroy the host; the prey can be extracted! There is no need, and will not time marinate the fear? She begs silently, hardly noticing that she squeezes his throat tighter.

Before It can create an argument, she launches herself up and backwards, onto the balcony. There are others there, other contaminated, most with orange faces and clothes. Some lie unconscious on the stone. She lands lightly, still holding the feebly struggling man. The Masters look at It warily, knowing that It is hungry, knowing that It longs to feed. She closes her eyes, commanding It to obey. So close! Let us make the point to all of the enemy, she orders It, inner voice gaining confidence. Let us tell them, in perfect clarity, that they should fear and hide. That will make the Hunt worthwhile. It lashes her tail in eager agreement.

They understand one another.

The red one takes a step toward them; They hold up their unencumbered hand to still him. He complies. He looks into Their eyes, probing, seeking. Then he nods and steps back. They look at the others, who take their cue from the red one. The other green one does not want to obey, but he does. They smile reassuringly at him, but he does accept the comfort. No matter. They turn away from him and face the remnants of the crowd.

They lift the man up so that all may see him. Tiny bursts of light splash from the remnant, accompanied by louder pops and softer clicks. They know the humans wish to record what They do, and They want the humans to record this. Then the prey will know. They hold the man up for several seconds, making certain all can see. He dangles, limp and nearly unconscious. They consumed his Power before, rendered him impotent of harm, so They do not fear attack from him. He is young, too new to have any force. His fists beat weakly at Their hand, which amuses Them in a small way. When They feel the documentation is sufficient, They turn to face the man.

Their right hand holds him high while Their left hand rises to lie gently on his chest. Again, They wait for the popping and clicking to subside. No more secrets, no more hiding. What They do, let all see.

Their hand clenches the fabric covering the man's chest, earning an involuntary twitch. More popping, clicking, and gasps. When all falls silent, They act.

Their hand digs into the man, dragging a scream from him. The crowd screams, too, but it does not understand what is happening. Not yet. Their fingers dig into the man and through him, up to Their elbow into the inner part of him where the prey lodges. There is no blood this time; there is no need for any more blood. They clench Their fist around the prey and rip it from the host.

They lift their trophy to the sky and roar in triumph. At last! At last, a whole prey, no host flesh in the way, no boxes tainting, trapping the base essence without the substance. The prey screams, a sound so shrill that the humans barely hear it. The devices around the square, on the balcony, shatter. Explosions small and large fill the air with smoke and shrapnel. Screams from the on-lookers. Popping, clicking, whispered curses and tearful prayers. Exclamations of disbelief, gibbered nonsense.

They hold their prey for all to see. Its form is distorted in the eyes of the humans, wispy and vaguely real. It tears at Their hand, but it has no strength to hurt Them, no ability to injure. They laugh wildly and bring up the last ball, the one They saved for this. They will show all how to properly use the Masters' art. Their fingers curl around it, remembering where to press amongst the carvings. The device clicks quietly, growing slightly larger as it opens along the etchings. They lift the ball so that the clickers and the poppers can make a record, but only for an instant. Weak as it is, the prey could still escape if left in the open too long. Triumphantly, They bring the ball to the prey. It shrieks again and writhes furiously. To no avail.

A flash of effort, and the prey dissolves into a grayish swirl sucked into the heart of the device. All of it, not merely the surface, now in captivity. Two seconds, and it is done. The prey is contained, and it knows its fate. The feast will be sweet.

The device shrinks to it tame state, and They tuck it into the bandoleer, patting it possessively. It will keep. They then look down at the host, the man lying limply on the balcony at Their feet. Somehow, he is trying to rise. They crouch down.

Lifting his chin gently, Fulenthen tells him, "Do not be afraid. You are free now, Jerell Graig of Ivrithin."

### ~~~~

Fulenthen stared into the man's eyes, willing him to understand. Fortunately, the Sukker hadn't been in him very long, so he still had a mind to come back to. After a few seconds, Graig nodded, a look of wonder growing in his eyes. She rose.

The other Descendants stood still, their expressions ranging from shock to awe to delight. The humans still on the balcony were confused and frightened, huddled protectively around one another. Fulenthen suddenly realized that she was the center of a great deal of attention.

Alleathon rescued her. "Well done, Sister! Now, we should hurry and sort out the rest of these before the Gontozenels can escape." He gestured to the group of people huddled at the feet of the other Descendants. She nodded briskly and moved toward them. Another movement caught her eye, stopping her.

Beythan stepped forward, out from the protection of his guards, who were not pleased with the action. Before he could speak, though, a reply sprang to Fulenthen's lips.

"He is clean, my lord president. The Gontozenel is no longer in him, and he will heal in time. This is what I bring to the Descendants and to Alluvia. The ability to free Drones. The ability to completely trap Sukkers. We ... now remember how to do this, and ... we will now free all of Humanity from its slavery." The last word held a bit of growl.

Beythan looked closely at her. He looked at the man, Graig, who now sat upright with his head in his hands. "He is ... free of the Sukker?" he repeated quietly.

"Yes, Mr. President. I-- I am not certain, but I think that perhaps he will not be so easily taken again. If ever." She'd lost hold of that wild connection with the beast, which paced inside her, so she wasn't completely certain. But the words felt right to say.

The president stood, frowning in thought, so Fulenthen continued on toward the captured Drones. Some were still conscious and screamed weakly as she came near. They could sense the beast. She ignored them, ignored everything, and drew on the ability she'd just learned. Drawing on the now-willing beast, she began pulling Gontozenels out of their hosts.

The extraction was not as quick or as simple as with the first man. His possessor had taken him perhaps a month before; many of these had held their hosts for years. Those did not let go without a fight, though they had all been partially drained by the balls, and the Hunter eagerly slurped up what energy they had left.

"I need the ball, the one that took this one's energy," she murmured to no one in particular.

"Ah, how do-- well, here they are. Can you tell which one is which?" Sonelion replied just as quietly, motioning for the rest to give over their devices. Fulenthen nodded, homing in on the one that hummed in unison with the man she now held. Picking it up, she swiftly activated it, not watching it open. Pulling the Gontozenel completely from its hiding place, she forced it to join the rest of itself in captivity. She moved silently through the group, working as quickly as she could.

Not all the humans would survive. Some had been consumed by the Gontozenels, some had long since given over to madness. One woman simply died. Of the four dozen or so they had caught, nine were mentally dead, fifteen wore such haunted and hollow looks that their survival might not be a blessing, and the rest wore dazed expressions.

She could hear the cameras going off behind her and Alleathon speaking to people. He was answering the questions they wanted to ask her, and she felt the deepest gratitude she'd ever felt in her life. She couldn't face strangers now. She could hardly stand to look at the other Descendants. The beast was cooperating and scarcely paid her any attention, but how long would that last? Fulenthen-- Sylenn desperately wished she could be anywhere but here.

Laillmen stepped up next to Alleathon, further shielding her from the gathering crowds. One by one, the others realized what their leaders were doing and helped out when their prisoners were dealt with. Naichen and Kiemelen began carrying the women Fulenthen had freed into the building, speaking quietly to them and passing them off to medical attendants. Heleathon and Lithilon did the same for the men. Sonelion began discussing something with the guards, but Fulenthen's world had narrowed to the Drone in front of her at that moment. Fankrethen, Xaylen, and Vyenthon helped her with the dwindling number of Drones. Vyenthon never left her side.

Long before she finished, Fulenthen felt dizzy. The beast was as happy as It could be, eagerly glutting Itself with energy, but that didn't sit well with Its host. The overflow of ... essence made her feel nauseated. Doggedly, she went on to the next, and then the next. Finally, she looked and saw that there were no more.

Before she could collapse on the stone floor of the balcony, Vyenthon put a gentle hand under her elbow. "Just a bit longer," he whispered. "Let us get back to the Temple; you can rest as long as you need to there." Sluggishly, she nodded.

The return trip was a blur. She remembered making polite farewells to the president and his entourage, walls and light passing by, and one particularly intense stare from a man in the hall, but nothing else. She didn't even recall falling into her bed.

### Chapter 12

The next four months were a haze of activity. Sylenn now went out regularly with the others to investigate reports of Drones and seek out those who had yet to reveal themselves. Nearly every day, she and another Descendant went through the portal created by the map to locations all over Alluvia. There was no time to admire scenery or appreciate being in new places, for as soon as she stepped across, the Hunter strained eagerly on the leash It had agreed to wear. They ran through the grand palaces of Qina, the jungles of Comoryos, the forested mountains of Gernsey, the water-bounded city-states of Amalrich, and saw none of them. Their view narrowed as they stepped over the platforms so that all They saw was Gontozenels.

Long before the end of those four months, Sylenn had had enough. When Satherlin called for a meeting, she decided to demand a change.

"Niel, glad you made it. Close the door, if you would," Satherlin greeted the food-laden man, who was, as usual, the last to arrive. Sylenn sat on the floor between a couch and a over-stuffed chair, partly because it felt safer there and partly to keep Mosin from plopping down next to her. He hovered so near her that she often found herself checking her bathing room before she went in.

"So, let's reference the reports we've compiled on the Gontozenels' recent movements," Satherlin began. "I think we've all agreed that they appear to be acting in greater concert than we've ever seen before. The attacks last week in Nieun and Lesoth happened at exactly the same time, and both had a focus: the warlords of those countries. The Archives tell us that Gontozenels rarely act together and seldom attempt to strike a particular target; there's been less than a dozen in the last 3,000 years. But the last two months have fifteen such events, four of which were simultaneous strikes. So something is going on. Lyshunda, your thoughts?"

The second in command nodded thoughtfully. "There's not much of a pattern to the strikes that we can see. They've hit public places, private estates, government houses, even open fields. I want to call it random, but I can't. I think it has to do with us having found the Hunter." Several pairs of eyes flicked over to Sylenn. "But I don't have any suggestions right now." She frowned in frustration.

"Tad?" Satherlin prompted. The tall man shrugged, his dark eyes fixed on the far wall.

"The same to me. When it comes down to it, we don't know enough about them. We've been observing them for thousands of years, but we're no closer to knowing them than we are the Ancients. Tesselëans. We don't even know why they started fighting, and we don't know why we're still fighting, true? Other than to protect our kind from them. _Condenados frustrante_."

"Clatyn?"

"They're starting to use more weapons," the burly man replied. "Not just their regular blasts. They're using human weapons like guns and knives and even carriages as rams. I couldn't prove it, but I think they're behind the e-car explosions in Vanautue, too. That causes just as much terror as anything else."

"Terror," Lyshunda interrupted, straightening in her chair. "Maybe that's what they're doing. It isn't that they want to destroy buildings or kill people; they want to make everyone afraid! Which would explain why we're getting even more bad publicity from everywhere." Her lips thinned considerably.

Satherlin agreed. "That does make sense. It is more difficult to do what we need to when the people put themselves in our way. As incredible as Sylenn and the Hunter's performance in Ivrithan was, there were many who felt it was brutish behavior from the Daemon-Kin." He smiled wryly, sending a supportive glance over at Sylenn, who continued to stare at the floor.

"But then we have to wonder how they're organizing themselves," Hae put in, "when they've never shown this kind of cooperation before."

Sylenn raised her head slightly, darting a second-long glance at the older woman. Hae's health had been failing faster these past few weeks, giving everyone concern. The beast sniffed with her nose, making a small whine in her mind. It could not be much longer before Hae's heart gave out.

"I'll bet they got someone highly placed," Kylle suggested. "Someone with much political power and wealth, who could make them all line up and take orders."

"An old one," Sylenn murmured, slowly straightening.

Satherlin held up a hand to forestall the others. "What do you mean by an old one?"

Sylenn looked up at him without moving her head, eyes bright with the Hunter. "The old ones have more power, more authority. The young ones must listen to, obey them. But not old in themselves; no, old in their hosts. It takes time; time to learn the host's potential, time to learn how to make it move. The young ones, they have held their hosts too little, and they forget so much in the transition. So strange, the humans are to them, as strange as they to us. The old ones, they have had time to remember, time to plan. They see us; they fear us. They think to drive us with the hate of humans." Sylenn blinked, then shook her head and ducked down.

"That does make sense," Lyshunda mused.

"But what do we do about it?" Clat demanded flatly, leaning back on the couch and lacing his hands behind his head. "All good and well to say they're doing this or that for whatever reason, but that doesn't get us any closer to finishing them. Maybe Kylle's right, that they've got someone in a powerful place, but maybe they've got this old one stashed someplace no-one knows about. Maybe none of us have heard of him, and maybe we all know him."

"You're right, speculation isn't action," Satherlin replied. "But at this point, we don't have enough information to suggest action, which is why we're speculating. To date, Descendants have always waited on Gontozenels to make the first move. Since we can't communicate with them, and we don't know if any of that machinery in the Garage can track them, we still have to wait for them to reveal themselves."

Hae spoke up. "Perhaps we should send the Hunter out more frequently in order to search for them. So far, we've had It responding the same way that we do. Now may be the time to give It a longer leash, so to speak."

Sylenn hunched over her knees further to hide the flash of excitement.

"You may have a point there, Hae," Satherlin mused, ignoring Mosin's building anger. "What do you think, Sylenn? Will the Hunter work with us to sniff out Gontozenels in hiding?"

Sylenn nodded without hesitation. "But I go alone."

### ~~~~

Sylenn walked along the streets of Suljem, hiding her glee under the brim of her old (and now clean) cap. It had taken three days to convince everyone, especially Mosin, but she'd done it. The thing had actually helped; whining about how It hated being around them all the time. She needed to get away for a while, breathe some air by herself, without being watched constantly. Maybe she'd been on her own too long; the forced companionship of the Temple burrowed under her skin and bit.

Mosin, when he realized that Satherlin was going to let her go, had proposed that he follow her at a distance, just in case something happened. That had taken another day to stave off. She did love her brother, but he was always around. She couldn't breathe without his eyes on her. Yet here she was.

She slunk carefully down the street, huddled in her familiar coat and trousers and now wearing shoes. She didn't mind that; her feet had gotten a bit soft, living on the Island. At least these floppy things fit well and looked scuffed enough for a vagrant to have. And it was a small concession to make in order to be free for an afternoon. The other small concession was hidden under her shirt: a small locating device the Ancients had left behind, snugly attached to a full bandoleer. The little machine would allow the others to find her, just in case.

What they didn't know (because she hadn't bothered to tell them) was how the beast and the Descendant in her played off of one another and enhanced each others' skills. The process had been gradual, but more and more she found her awareness expanding. Point in case, she could tell that half an hour after she'd waltzed through the portal underneath the Parliament and declined "assistance" for her "confidential mission", another Descendant had come through, as well. It felt like Konyetta, or rather Kiemelen Navvason, since she was suited. No way to tell if she was here on true business or if she was checking up on Sylenn. Not unless she got close.

If or when that happened, she'd deal with it. The past three days had given her a better feel for how far she could push, and she liked that. She also liked having a firm grip on the beast.

Who had just scented a Sukker.

Her step faltered for a second before she took control back. No need to rush; the Sukker couldn't tell they were coming. That was abundantly clear from the past missions; the Sukkers lost much of their sensing power when they took human hosts. The beast remembered times when they had known It was coming, but that didn't happen now. So she ambled along the street, turning into a large alley-way and following it to another street, which led to another. Before long, she had determined which moving body was her quarry. An older man this time, dressed like a clerical worker. As she drew up behind him, she could smell ink and paper; possibly a press-worker for a newspaper. Not that it mattered. She took a few moments to get a deeper feel for him and his parasite, and the beast, knowing that the meal would come, let her.

This one was middle-aged, for a Gontozenel. Probably had held the man for ... twelve to sixteen years. Most Gontozenels seemed to lose control of their hosts early on, which accounted for the high mortality rate of Drones. No telling how this one had managed to hang onto its host so long; the man had been fully grown when the Sukker latched onto him. The oldest Sukker Sylenn had come across (that she had tried to measure) was about twenty-three or so. That had been a nasty fight; one hundred seventy-nine people dead and most of Maottey's wood-hut capital destroyed. They had won, but the victory was bitter despite the beast being satisfied for two days after that meal. The human woman, of course, had been dead long before the battle was over.

This one wouldn't be so bad, but it would not be easy. How to get him off the street--

"Why are you following me?" His abrupt turn and growl startled her so much that her brain went to default.

"Spare some change, mister?" She held out a hand tentatively.

He snorted. "No such thing as a free handout, girly. You want money, you gotta work to earn it."

"Oh. Um, got any work I can do for you?" She shifted slightly, letting the front of her jacket open a little more. It was an old ploy, but sometimes it worked. On full humans, though; no telling what an older Sukker would allow its host to do.

His eyes flicked down, then back up. He stared at her face for a few minutes, then grunted. "Maybe there is something you could do for me, girly. Follow me." They entered an alley-way a half-block away. Guess it would work this time.

### Chapter 13

The Drone's expectations were bizarre, but Sylenn was able to avoid fulfilling them by suiting up and attacking before he could scream. A quick blow to the head rendered him semiconscious, and then it was just a matter of extracting the thing. That took some time, but at least the host wasn't fighting back after the first few minutes. When she finished, the man was still breathing, but she wouldn't swear to him being alive. Let the doctors see to that. She turned to leave the opposite end of the alley-way from where they'd entered and found Konyetta blocking her way.

"Before you say anything, no, I'm not following you. I told them I would, just to keep you-know-who from charging after you, but I'm not. It's plain as day you need some breathing space, and that's alright. So I'm going shopping (which I really need to do, anyway), and I won't do anything to deliberately cross your path. If we see each other, I will ignore you. Is that alright?" Konyetta looked at her appealingly.

Fulenthen took a moment before replying. "Fine. But I meant it when I said I don't want any of you around. We cross paths too much, and I'll toss this thing and run." She fingered the tracking device.

"Sure, I understand," Konyetta hastily replied. "I thought it would be better for me to come since I respect your need for privacy, than one of the others who might not. That's why I made sure to come to you first thing, to let you know. No surprises, alright?" Her smile was tentative.

"Alright," Fulenthen allowed, dredging up a small smile of her own. Konyetta wasn't so bad, really; she was probably the one Descendant Fulenthen disliked the least. Despite her silly chatter. Unsuiting, Sylenn replied, "You have fun shopping, then. Um, what are you looking to buy?"

"Oh! Some new clothes, mostly; mine are just so terribly dated. I also wanted to check on the latest fashions, to see what we're missing. It does make us stand out, you have to admit, when we show up in last year's dresses!" She giggled softly.

"Guess so. I don't pay much attention to fashion or clothes. Unless I'm not wearing any." Sylenn scowled at the ground and scuffed a shoe absently.

"I know exactly what you mean. According to the Archives, almost none of the women actually enjoyed the suits. We make do as we can. Speaking of which, you know, we might be able to restyle your hair; that could give you a little extra coverage. If we let it down, or some such." Konyetta gazed thoughtfully at Sylenn, who lifted her eyes.

"You think? Guess we could try it. Um, maybe someplace less ... open?"

"Oh, of course! Follow me, I know just the place." Konyetta turned to go.

"Hey, um, what about him?" Sylenn pointed at the unmoving man.

Konyetta considered. "Well, why don't you go first; you're good at being unnoticed. I'll come out a moment later and draw some attention to him. Then I'll slip off and join you at the intersection of Trivan Avenue and Yissacal."

"Fine," Sylenn grunted and slouched out of the alley-way.

Half an hour later, Konyetta passed through the intersection of Yissacal and Trivan, not minding the small shadow that detached from a wall to follow her. After passing through the busy crowds, she turned north and headed for the quieter section of Yissacal Boulevard. A few minutes later, she marched into an alley-way between two shops and entered a door halfway down that. After climbing a short flight of stairs and entering a high-ceiling room, Kiemelen turned around and was not surprised to find Sylenn slouching against the wall by the door.

"Nice place," Sylenn offered, looking around the unfurnished room. "How'd you find it?"

"Oh, it's part of my ability. I'm far more limited than Satherlin; he can hear people for up to two leagues. Rather, their heartbeats. I can tell whether or not there's anyone around me for about half a league, but it's not anything I hear or see; I just know. Um, since I can sense them even if they're ... no longer alive, I mostly use it to find people trapped in rubble.

"I found this place a few years ago when we were tracking a Drone; it had been empty for almost a year (oh, I can also tell how long it's been since anyone was in a place). Afterwards, we came back and rented it so we would have a safe place to retreat to, just in case. There're actually quite a few of these safe-houses around Alluvia."

Sylenn nodded.

"Right. Let's see about your hair, then, shall we?" Sylenn shrugged and changed.

"Good thing the ceilings are so high," Fulenthen commented.

"I know," Kiemelen smiled in reply, "that's one of the reasons we chose it. Goodness, you brought a lot of storage balls with you. Never mind; let's see your hair. It never ceases to amaze me how our suits are designed; how can so much hair be bound in such a tight little band? And where do these bands come from, anyhow? Hmm, I can't seem to get it to budge. Fulenthen, why don't you try to loosen it? Sometimes suits are made so that only the wearer can change things."

Fulenthen reached up and slid one finger under the wide band that trapped her hair into the high, poufy tail on top of her head. Sure enough, it immediately loosened. The band glowed softly and slid over her head to settle around her throat, letting her long green hair tumble over her shoulders. Kiemelen gasped, taupe eyes going wide.

"Where did you go? Fulenthen, where are you?" Panic edged her normally suit-calmed voice.

"I'm right here, you twit," Fulenthen grumbled.

Kiemelen didn't seem to hear her. "Fulenthen ... I can't sense you! Are you still there?" She reached out her hand, touching Fulenthen, but seemed not to realize she'd done so.

"Oh!" Kiemelen exclaimed. "I think we just found your special ability! When you let your hair down, you become completely invisible! Put it back up, please!"

Fulenthen hooked her finger back under the band at her throat and pulled upward. It shimmered, dragging her hair back into the tail. Kiemelen's eyes found her immediately.

"Oh, my. Fulenthen, that is just amazing! I couldn't tell you were there at all! Were you standing in the same place the whole while?"

"Yes, and I'd appreciate it if you were less familiar with your hands." Fulenthen smiled tightly.

"Oh, I'm so sorry! I didn't mean-- I was just--"

"I'm teasing." Fulenthen let her off with a softer grin. "So, I can be invisible and undetectable. That's useful. It would even appear that I can bump into people with out them noticing."

Kiemelen had a grin of her own now. "You do realize that you just made a pun, don't you?"

Fulenthen started, thought about it, and then smiled sheepishly. "I guess I did."

"Oh, Fulenthen, this is simply wonderful! I think you're really getting used to all of this. When you first came, you wouldn't smile or laugh or joke at all, and now you can tease me without a second thought. I told you it would get better, didn't I just? I know it's not the best possible life, and I know it's one that you didn't choose, but it can still be an worthwhile one, don't you think?"

Fulenthen shrugged, looking away. "I guess. It would be better if I had a middle ground between showing everything and showing nothing, though." Her hand strayed to her hair but did not tug the band. Kiemelen narrowed her eyes thoughtfully.

"Perhaps if you tried to direct it to something in the middle? Last time, you simply pulled it, and it went all the way down; I did see the band go around your throat before you vanished. Perhaps you could make it go around your head, instead?"

"We'll see." Fulenthen reached up again and deliberately pulled on the band, thinking fiercely about having it go halfway between the hair-tail and her throat. Sure enough, the band settled around her forehead, covering her hairline all the way around. Her hair fell again, but this time down her back. Noting how it trailed to her ankles, Fulenthen looked up at Kiemelen enquiringly.

"No, you didn't disappear, which I'm quite grateful for! That was just a shock! But you are ... hmm, how to say this ... slightly faded, I think. When I'm looking at you, I can see you well enough, but I'm having trouble sensing you. I think that if I were distracted, I would forget you were here."

Fulenthen grinned again with a predatory edge. "Again, most useful. I could be a part of the group, yet forgettable. That could come in very handy at political functions."

"Have you been listening to Laillmen, again?" Kiemelen demanded. "Honestly, she's so concerned with our public image! Don't tell me you're going to be her spy now!"

"I can be anyone's spy, now," Fulenthen replied impishly. "I can go anywhere, and no-one will be able to find me or even know I'm there. This will make it so much easier to--" She bit off the rest of the thought.

"To avoid Vyenthon?" Kiemelen finished for her. At Fulenthen's grudging nod, she sighed. "I understand how you feel. We all know that he clings to you because he cares, because he's worried about you. He lost you and then got you back. I just can't blame him for feeling the way he does, but I do blame him for how he acts, which is why I made sure that I was the one following you today. He needs to learn to let go of you once in a while!" She smiled hugely at Fulenthen and got a shy grin in reply.

"Thank you, Kiemelen."

Yes, Konyetta was definitely the Descendant Sylenn disliked the least.

### Chapter 14

There were a lot of Drones in Suljem, Sylenn discovered; far more than the information available to the Descendants had indicated. By the time evening fell, there were ten fewer. She'd allowed the beast a few moments to feed, but always after they'd taken the Gontozenel from the host and left the scene. It was quite likely that a new crop of ghost stories would soon spring up in Ivrithan about invisible spirits who came to steal souls or some other such nonsense. Sylenn didn't really care. She was enjoying her freedom far too much.

She didn't even mind as much that beast was still inside her. After eight years of slavery, forced murders, and abject fear, she felt freer than she could ever have imagined. The thing was cooperating with her, not using her, and It almost felt ... comfortable with her.

She, however, felt hungry. Digging into one of her many pockets, she came up with a few coins that she'd discovered in alley-ways, on the side-walks, and in other people's pockets. Old habits do linger. Given the late hour, however, where could she go to spend them? The nicer restaurants weren't a consideration; they'd never let her in. The grocers were closed for the day. The public houses wouldn't have meals, just over-fried, over-salted snacks. She wandered the streets for a bit before she found a little shop still open. Given its proximity to several theaters, she shouldn't have been surprised. Actors kept odd hours, after all.

Tucking the information away for future reference, she went in and bought a tiny loaf of day-old bread, a rind of cheese, some broken bits of meat, and a scraping of butter. It was a meal she would have killed for half a year ago. The sweet-faced old woman behind the counter wrapped and packed the items carefully in the small, threadbare sack Sylenn had pulled from another pocket and, when she thought Sylenn wasn't watching, snuck a few pieces of penny-candy in as well. Sylenn bobbed her head gratefully and left with her treasure tucked in her arms.

Now to find herself a quiet place to eat. As she left the shop and turned toward the Parliament House (it was time for her to be getting back, after all), her street-honed senses detected a presence behind her. Deliberately not reacting, she kept walking, aiming for the street lamps a little ways ahead at the next intersection.

"Well, well, what we got here?" a male voice sneered behind her.

"Looks like a little rat with some crumbs," another replied. Sylenn ignored them.

"Too small for a rat; gotta be a mouse." The first speaker drew up alongside Sylenn, letting her see him from the corner of her eye. The second one came up on her other side. Common street thugs. She knew she could hurt them even without suiting up, but they didn't. Didn't mean she was looking forward to doing so; she'd have to explain her own condition when she got back to the Temple, since she would take a few licks before she brought them down.

"Hey, girl," the second one said, trying to get her attention. He didn't get it. "Hey! I'm talkin' to you!"

The first one brayed. "Mouse has some guts, eh, Elish? Thinks if she doesn't answer, maybe you'll go away, huh? Take your ugly face and leave her be?"

"Maybe she thinks she's got guts," Elish replied in a low voice. "I say we take a look and find out." He reached for the sack in Sylenn's arms.

Sylenn's head whipped around. Elish thought she was responding to him, but she her gaze went past him. They'd just come to the intersection, and she smelled something. The beast smelled something.

"Here now, what's all this?" a new voice demanded.

The thugs looked up from their game, Elish's hand still on Sylenn's sack of food. Another man walked up to them; he'd been traveling down the cross street. Dressed in a neat suit and carrying a leather satchel and frowning, he came to a stop in front of them. It took Sylenn a moment to gather her wits; the strange smell was one she hadn't encountered before.

He smelled tainted, but he wasn't. And it wasn't that he associated with someone who was tainted, because the smell was inside him, yet it was old, decaying. Finally her brain put it together. He had been a Drone, and she had cleansed him. That reporter from the ceremony those months back. Jerell Graig, who now smelled like an empty tomb.

"Nothin', just havin' a conversation is all," Elish snarled, not letting go of the sack.

"What's it to you?" the other growled.

"It looks to me as though the lady does not wish to have a conversation with you," Graig replied, still frowning. "Am I correct, Mistress?"

"This thing? A lady?" Elish and his partner howled derisively. "This here is gutter trash, mister fancy-suit."

Sylenn took the opportunity to jerk away from the duo. Since they were standing partially behind her, she had to step forward, toward Graig. He obviously took the move as her wish for protection. Just as well, so long as the thugs backed off before she had to endure another lecture from her brother.

"Your opinion notwithstanding, I think you should leave now," Graig said with a half-growl, stepping forward so that Sylenn was partially behind him.

"Hey, hey, it's alright," the first thug said, easing Elish backwards. "You want the whore, you can have her."

"Yeah," Elsih snapped before turning away. The night was early yet, and there would be easier marks.

When the toughs were out of earshot, Graig turned to Sylenn. "I'm dreadfully sorry you had to hear that, Mistress, and I am happy to have been of some assistance to you. Are you well?" He looked her over carefully, as though assessing her for injury. Did he think she would faint?

He was definitely different without the Sukker in him. Of course, one could argue that he was now talking and not the Gontozenel so there would obviously be a difference. She couldn't quite get over the strange way he smelled to the beast. It was puzzled but not upset.

Graig must have taken her scrunched face for something like shock, because he next said, "If it's not too forward of me, Mistress, you seem a bit shaken, which you have every right to be. May I offer you something warm to drink? There is a little cafe just up the street; you can see it there. I would be honored to purchase a cup of something for you. If you feel unsafe, I would also be happy to hire a cab to take you to your destination."

From most of the men she'd ever dealt with, Sylenn would have known he meant the offer as a prelude to other offers. Graig, though, didn't strike her as the type. Even for a well-dressed man, he simply didn't have the air of trying to get a lay out of her. Not even that well-concealed hint that so many practiced. Besides, he was offering free food, and the beast was insanely curious to investigate this not-prey.

She nodded without speaking, playing up the scared damsel a little. Graig smiled kindly and gestured for her to turn up the street. With another smile, he offered his arm out of courtesy.

He had a nice smile, Sylenn decided. A very nice smile. Timidly, she slid her hand through the crook of his arm. Up close to him, she realized he had a nice smell all his own. The beast approved, inhaling with her nose. The prey was gone, every last bit of it. It had never encountered this situation before, but now that It had, the thing subsided within her. It would not forget.

What strange sight they presented to anyone glancing out their windows, Sylenn could guess. A shabby waif arm-in-arm with a nicely-dressed business man. They would draw their conclusions, so let them. Graig gently guided her up to the cafe and opened the door for her. A jingle announced them.

"Hello, and welcome!" a portly man called out, rounding the counter. "Oh, it's you, Jerell! Good to see you, young man! Good to see you. And whom have you brought with you, hmm? A lovely young lady, I see!"

Jerell returned the handshake warmly. "Jothun, this young lady is in need of something warm to drink; she just escaped from a near-dangerous encounter with some petty thugs."

"Is that so?" the proprietor cried, looking with concern that seemed genuine to Sylenn. "Blessed Lord preserve us all; the streets simply aren't as safe as they used to be, are they? Well, come, come, let's get you into a seat, my dear, and get you taken care of. Such a terrible thing for a young lady to go through. Maree! Some fresh juava, quickly! There you are dear, and you, too, Jerell! That's it; may I take your coat or parcel, Mistress?"

Sylenn clutched her sack reflexively. She hadn't meant to refuse him, but a few months ago she would have died before parting with food or possessions.

"Not a worry, my dear," the man soothed her; "You can set it right here on this chair, where it's quite within sight. Ah, thank you, Maree. Here we go; fresh, hot juava. We buy these beans from the best vendor in Suljem; they come directly from Toklea, make no mistake. Cream? Sugar? There we are. Now, I'll stop hovering so you can enjoy and relax for a bit."

Sylenn was glad he'd left; his presence was... like a very large blanket thrown over her. Jothun was likeable, but... he reminded her of Mosin, just a little. She looked over at Graig before picking up her cup, sniffing it, and taking a cautious sip. Not bad for juava, though the beans grown on the Island were smoother. This was bitter enough to choke a Sukker. She stifled a giggle at the phrase.

"Are you feeling any better, Miss?" Jerell asked after sipping his own drink with apparent enjoyment.

She nodded, setting down her cup and hiding her hands in her lap. Now what?

"I do beg your pardon, Miss, for not making proper introductions. My name is Jerell Graig; I work for the news-paper, Ivrithan Today. I live at the boarding house run by Jothun's sister, which is how I know him and his family. May I ask your name?"

"Um, Sylenn," she mumbled. "Sylenn Jenfsen." She wasn't entirely comfortable giving him her real name, but he'd been straight with her so far. And it wasn't as though any of her family lived anywhere near here, so the chances of him digging anything up on them were small. But old habits ... For the first time since she'd awakened from the nightmare of her life, those habits bothered her.

"I'm pleased to meet you, Miss Jenfsen. How do you do." He gave a small bow from the waist over the table, smiling. She couldn't stop a small smile from tugging at the corner of her mouth.

"That's the spirit!" Graig cheered. "How do you like your juava? It's a bit strong, but I like how bracing Jothun makes it."

"Um, I don't ... I've never drunk much juava, so it's ... stronger than I'm used to." How could he be so nice? His eyes were so honest that she was having trouble keeping up her guard.

The last time she'd spent time with truly nice people had been before the beast took her, when she was a child. Since that day of dying, she'd been on the streets, under bridges, in abandoned shacks, and anywhere she'd thought she could be left alone for a few hours. Every other vagrant had felt fairly much the same way, agreeing to that unspoken pact to let one another be. No questions, no friendships. No weaknesses. Surviving was not living.

The people at the Temple were always around, constantly pressing on her, talking to her, making her do things. They cared, but they were so focused, so determined to use her to defeat the Gontozenels. She could understand that. But it was squeezing the life out of her.

Graig wasn't like either group. He didn't look at her with the eye of someone trying to take something from her, and he wasn't suffocating her or ordering her about. It was ... strange.

Graig nodded in understanding. "It is an acquired taste, Miss Jenfsen. Would you like some tisane, instead? Jothun would be only too happy--"

"No! Um, no, this is fine." She wasn't sure why she was keeping the drink; she really didn't like it. Perhaps because it was free and already here.

"Oh. Well, if you're fine with it, then we won't bother with a change. Did you need something to eat, perhaps? It is past the dinner hour, after all."

Tempting, but luck only went so far. He _seemed_ honorable, but she wouldn't take chances. "Thank you, but I'm fine."

"Quite alright. Would you mind if I ordered something, then? I haven't had my dinner yet, and I confess to being more than a little hungry myself."

"Um, sure. Do what you need to." She ignored her rumbling stomach and hoped he hadn't heard it. There were some tantalizing smells coming out of the kitchen.

Graig waved at the barmaid, Maree, who nearly jumped over the counter to reply.

"Whatcha need, Jerell?" she asked, her bright eyes torn between drinking in Graig's clean-shaven face and peering curiously at Sylenn's half-hidden one.

"Maree, could I get a basket of those fried potato skirls, some steamed rice, and a plate of tips and gravy?"

"Oh, sure, Jerell! I'll get that right up for you. Need anything else?" the girl simpered.

Maree looked to be about Sylenn's age, which put her perhaps five to seven years behind Graig. She was cute and pretty and attractively plump, which suddenly made Sylenn very aware of how shabby _she_ was. But at least she wasn't dirty anymore. That was one thing to say for the Temple; she never had to go longer without bathing than she wanted to. And there weren't any more fleas to worry about, either.

"No, that's all, Maree. Thank you very much." It was the most polite dismissal Sylenn had ever heard. Maree pouted for a moment before swishing away.

"You'll have to forgive Maree," Graig said, turning to Sylenn. "She is a wonderful girl but a bit fonder of me than I am of her. She means well, so don't take her attitude to heart."

Why was he apologizing for the girl, Sylenn wondered. "It's alright. I don't mind girls like her."

"Oh?" Graig seemed to hear something in that. "What do you mean, if I may ask?"

"Um, well, just that I've met girls like her before, and they never bother me."

"I see." Graig seemed torn between curiosity and manners. Sylenn snorted and leaned forward.

"Look, Graig, you can just ask me. Yeah, I'm a gutter-rat. I grew up on the streets, and I've lived rough. The reason I don't pay attention to girls like her is because I know all they can do is give me lip. They try to hurt me, and they learn fast that they can't. Not that I'd try anything on her; she'd probably run crying if I so much as smiled at her."

Graig chuckled good-naturedly. "I'm glad to hear that, Miss Jenfsen; I truly am."

"You are?" she blurted.

"Yes, I am." Graig took another sip from his cup, sparing her his probing glance. "Not only that you wouldn't try to hurt Maree but that you can take care of yourself. There are a lot of people who just lie down and let life run all over them; I can see that you are a woman who doesn't let fate roll over her. So, I'm glad to hear what you've said."

He set down his cup and looked kindly at her.

Sylenn looked blankly back at him. How-- "How can you say that?" she murmured. Graig started to reply, but she cut him off.

"How can you say that? Don't you see me? My clothes are castoff rags, I sleep wherever I'm allowed to, and I eat whatever molding crap I can dig out of a trash pile! I don't have any choice about what fate has done to me! I never had any choice about anything that's happened to me since I was born!"

She refused to cry, forcing anger to steam away the tears that hovered under her eyelids. It wasn't quite a lie, what she'd just told him. Yelled at him. All her clothes were from someone else; either she'd pulled them off a corpse or found them in the wardrobe at the Temple. They weren't hers. The room where she slept wasn't hers. Meals were more plentiful in the Temple than on the streets, and better-tasting, but they was still decided for her. At least what she'd dug out of the heaps had been her decision.

Graig kept a pleasant expression. "But you did have choices, Miss Jenfsen, and you've made them fairly well, from what I can see. You were born and raised on the streets, but you didn't let them crush you or turn you to drink or hashish. You only take what you need to survive instead of stealing things for the sake of stealing them. You don't manipulate others into doing things for you that they might not want to, and you won't hurt someone who's weaker than you.

"I've met many people who lived and died on the streets, Miss Jenfsen, and you're doing quite well compared to most. You chose to live, to have morals, and to dream of bigger things for yourself. Yes, life hasn't been kind or considerate, but you've not let that stop you."

As Sylenn stared at him, he flushed and looked aside self-consciously. "I do apologize, Miss Jenfsen; I get on my lectern far too often."

"How do you know I'm not manipulating you?" Sylenn demanded, brow furrowed.

"Because I've been manipulated by some of the best out there, and I don't see you doing anything remotely like that. You haven't asked me for anything and even turned down an offer of a free meal. You're not probing me; you're not asking me any questions about myself. If that's a kind of manipulation, I'm very impressed."

"And what makes you think any of what you just said about me is true?" she demanded.

"Because I'm good at reading people," Graig replied easily, taking another sip. Sylenn ignored her cup. "And you told me most of it. I know you don't like hurting weaker persons because you assured me that you wouldn't hurt Maree. That also tells me that you have some morals. You didn't pick any of my pockets, even though we walked next to one another for several minutes, so you don't take what you don't really need.

"When you speak, your voice is firm and strong, and though you don't like looking others in the eye, you're not afraid of them. You protect yourself, but you don't limit yourself, either, by protecting too much. You're willing to take risks, since you came along with a perfect stranger to an unfamiliar cafe. In summary, you're not broken by the life that you've been given. Am I right?"

Sylenn stiffened, nearly leaping to her feet.

"What is it? Have I insulted you with my frankness, Miss--"

"My brother," Sylenn muttered, biting back a curse. Mosin-- no, Vyenthon had just crossed the platform into Suljem. "Um, it's getting late, and my brother will be worried. I should be going." She grabbed her sack and got up.

"Of course; how thoughtless of me to keep you," Graig said, grabbing his coat. "Please, allow me to fetch you a cab--"

"No! Um, thanks, but I can walk; it's not far." Damn it, Vyenthon was moving fast.

"Then may I walk with you, to make certain no-one else accos--"

"NO! Just-- Look, I appreciate what you did, and you're really nice and all, but I've got to ..." she trailed off, looking toward the door of the cafe.

Mosin stood there, glowering.

"Ah," Graig said, looking from Mosin to Sylenn and back. He finished straightening his coat, then walked up to Mosin with hand proffered. "You must be Miss Jenfsen's brother; I'm Jerell Graig."

Mosin stared at Graig's hand before brusquely shaking it. His gaze darted back to Sylenn.

"I thought you agreed to be back before dark," he said evenly.

"Sorry," Sylenn muttered. "Got delayed."

"So I see." Mosin's gaze knifed back to Graig.

"I met Miss Jenfsen on my way home from work, not fifteen minutes ago," Graig replied calmly, without defensiveness. "When I came to the intersection just back there, she walked up; two ne'er-do-wells were bothering her, and I made certain they left her alone. I thought she might need to sit and rest after such an encounter, so I prevailed upon her to allow me to purchase a cup of juava for her. She was just leaving when you arrived."

Mosin glared back and forth between them.

"I was hungry," Sylenn answered his unspoken demand. "I stopped and bought something." She hefted the sack.

"You could have eaten when you got back; we've more than enough," Mosin replied. The leash on his temper wouldn't hold long.

"I said I'm sorry," Sylenn snapped, stalking toward him. As she shouldered past Graig, she added, "Let's just go then, alright? You can lecture me later."

"Fine," Mosin snapped back, grabbing her arm.

"Miss Jenfsen," Graig said, stepping forward. "I hope that you know that you can trust me. If ever you need someone to talk to, just let me know." He held out a small white plaque.

Before Mosin could yank her away, Sylenn grabbed the paper rectangle. Then she dashed out the door ahead of her brother.

As soon as they hit the street, Sylenn ran for the nearest alley-way. She could hear Mosin say something behind her, but she ignored him. A few steps into the alley-way, she called up her suit and yanked her hair-band.

Mosin pounded into the alley-way a second later. Swearing under his breath, he suited up.

### Chapter 15

Mosin finally caught up with her as she was leaving the laboratory, having deposited the balls and bandoleer and fed the beast. He must have gone looking for her in Suljem. From his expression, he was ready to take her over his knee.

She brushed by him, deftly avoiding his attempt to grab her arm again. "Save it for later, Mosin," she growled. "Perhaps when you've realized that I'm not a child anymore."

"You're acting like it;" he snapped, following her down the hall. "Staying out late, taking up with random strangers--"

"Investigating a cleansed Drone!" she cut him off. He blinked. "Look, I'm going to find Satherlin and tell him about it. If you're so concerned, you can ask him if he'll allow you to sit in. But leave me be, alright? I'm tired of your nagging!"

She stormed down the hall, ignoring Mosin's expression.

### ~~~~

Satherlin leaned back into the armchair. "That is interesting news, Sylenn." She hardly noticed anymore how the seat seemed to swallow the tiny man.

"It's incredible," Lyshunda added. "Until now, we've never had a way to help Drones; either they lived or they didn't, and most of them didn't. The boxes and balls aren't gentle for removing the Sukkers, and based on what you've told us, they aren't designed for that, anyhow."

"Um, I think it's more that you just forgot how to use them the right way," Sylenn ventured. "Without the b--Hunter around, you forgot there was a need to do the thing and press the right thing and think-- about the thing," she finished sheepishly.

Dry chuckles answered her.

"That's alright, dear," Lyshunda replied, "none of us could explain it any better, either. It's something you just know when you're suited up."

"Yeah," Sylenn murmured, ducking her head.

"So, this fellow made a full recovery," Satherlin mused. "I wonder about the others you've 'cleansed', as we call it. We should start some sort of study on the subject."

"Demney would love that!" Clatyn sang out mischievously, gaining hoots from several others in the common room. Sylenn sat on her wooden chair, pointedly ignoring Mosin, who sat three spaces over on one of the couches. He held his arms crossed, shoulders hunched, and maintained a sullen expression.

"Calm down, everyone," Satherlin waved for attention. "I'll start talking with Dr. Demney on feasible ways to monitor the Cleansed, and I want all of you to keep an eye out for them. Don't hound them, but make what observations you can. So, I think that's all for now; clear out now!" Grinning he shooed them out.

"Sylenn, if you don't mind, I'd like you to stay for a bit," Satherlin said as the newest Descendant rose from her chair. She froze for a moment, before slowly lowering herself back down. When everyone else had left (Mosin most grudgingly), Satherlin turned to her.

"I wanted to let you know, Sylenn, how much we appreciate all that you've done in your short time with us," he began with a smile. "I know this was very difficult for you, perhaps more difficult than for any other Descendant in our long history. You've done very well, and I wanted to make sure that you knew that we've seen that."

"Um, thanks."

"You've overcome a lot; I never lived on the streets or had the kind of life you've had, so I can only imagine what it was like for you. I do know a bit of what it's like to be afraid get close to people. Most people look at someone like me and shudder; dwarves are considered freaks and unnatural in so many cultures. When I was younger, before I Awakened, people were very cruel to me, and to protect myself I became cold and aloof to them. When I Awakened, I found a family I'd never thought I could have. Even my own parents were ashamed of me, you see. Coming to the Temple was perhaps the best thing that could ever have happened to me.

"I was born in Troit, in Amalrich. Worked in the manufactory that everyone worked in, doing whatever jobs needed small hands to do. They had me working alongside the children even though I was a grown man. They looked at me and saw what they wanted to see. When I was young, I fell in love with a woman, but she wouldn't have me because of my dwarfishness. The only reason I married at all was because Jenise was also a dwarf and everyone expected us to marry. We did learn to love each other, mind you. But life out there was hard for us because we were different. Here at the Temple, everyone is different, which makes us the same.

"But things didn't get better all at once after Resorethon Awakened me. I had to learn how to trust people again. I didn't think these whole, healthy people would really accept me, Descendant or not. I thought they would simply tolerate me because they had to, not because they wanted to. It took time, but I eventually realized that they all cared about me. Not only for me but about me, for my own sake. It was a revelation, I can tell you!

"So, after a while, I realized that I had friends and family here, and I love it. Wouldn't live anywhere else. These people have stood by me through the years; we've experienced life together. I held them when they cried; they mourned with me when Jenise died. Everyone who's Awakened since me has become the son or daughter that Jenise and I couldn't have.

"I'm telling you this to let you know that I know some of what you're facing now with learning how to trust people. You've had to keep away from them, had to kill them and do God-awful things, so it's obvious that you wouldn't want to be close to us. I can tell that you're making an effort, and I wanted to encourage you in that. Let us in, Sylenn, so we can help you."

Satherlin smiled at her again. Sylenn looked into his eyes. Yes, he was sincere. He did mean it.

"Um, thanks."

"You're welcome, Sylenn. It must also be very hard to face your past, especially your brother, who is so relieved to have you back that he's driving everyone crazy with his behavior!" Satherlin chuckled deeply.

Surprised, Sylenn found herself grinning.

"Yes, my dear," Satherlin assured her, "we've all noticed how he keeps after you, and we all wish that he would give you a bit more space. I'll be speaking with him about that later on tonight. What I wanted to ask of you is to understand how he feels and why he's acting the fool he is." Sylenn frowned.

"He loves you, Sylenn; you're the baby sister he thought was dead. He clings to you because he's afraid to lose you again, and he's trying to make up for lost time. You don't have to like how he's doing that; no-one would ask that of you! But do try to understand, alright? Give him time to get used to having you in his life again."

Sylenn nodded slowly.

### ~~~~

Three weeks later, Sylenn stood outside a tall building in Suljem. She stared up at its four stories, thinking. She hadn't meant to stop here, not really. But she hadn't been able not to stop, either. It was another scheduled prowl day for the beast, and she'd already tagged and picked up three Drones this morning. Now, just past noon, she found herself in the heart of the business district, in front of the building that housed the Ivrithan Today news-paper. And Jerell Graig.

She sighed and shook her head angrily. No use thinking any more about it; she couldn't simply--

Wait, she could. With her newfound ability, she _could_ simply walk in unrecognized and watch him unawares. It would be a perfect way to make certain he suffered no ill effects from the cleansing, as Satherlin had officially dubbed it. She only needed a secret place to suit--

"Miss Jenfsen!"

Sylenn spun around into a half-crouch. Graig halted in his approach from the building's main entrance. After a second, she stood up, rubbing her sleeves self-consciously.

"What a pleasant surprise!" Graig resumed his stride toward her. "I didn't-- Ah, it's good to see you again! How are you doing today?" His big smile never slipped.

"Um, fine, I guess," Sylenn replied, ducking her head. Then she looked back up at him. "I didn't come here on purpose, to wait for you or anything. I just was walking by, and I remembered that you said you worked here, that's all."

"Certainly, certainly; I would never imply anything. I'm simply delighted to see you again." Graig didn't offer to touch her, but Sylenn thought that he might have wanted to at least pat her arm. He seemed like the type who would.

"So, um, I'll be on my way; didn't mean to disturb you--"

"Oh, not at all, Miss Jenfsen, not at all. I was actually on my way to get something to eat. Do you have time to join me?"

Sylenn hesitated. It was tempting. It would be a good opportunity to study him more. It would be a good opportunity to learn how to trust people more, like Satherlin had said. She knew she needed to open up and be nicer to people.

And Graig still smelled so nice. Clean human, despite the gaping hole where the Sukker had been. But even that was healing, if slowly, giving way to the man's natural, human scent.

"Um, alright."

"Excellent!" Graig beamed and offered her his arm. She was dressed in her customary hunting clothes, the vagrant's garb that still felt the most comfortable to her. Now, though, it didn't feel so comfortable as she gingerly slipped her ragged sleeve over Graig's smooth one. He seemed determined not to notice any discrepancy and led her proudly down the street.

He cheerily informed her that he'd planned to visit the bakery one street over and then dine in the park. She nodded silently as he chattered on.

It was strange, she mused as she walked beside him, noting the various glances of the passers-by. Who would have thought that she would ever find herself in a position like this? When she was a child, certainly, she had dreamed of beaus like any other girl. When the beast had consumed her, those dreams and faded into nightmares. Yet now here she was.

Her next wondering was why Graig was being so nice to her.

She wasn't much to look at, in her scruffy (though clean) clothes, her barely-brushed hair frizzing out from under the man's cap she wore low over her forehead, and scrawny figure. She knew her faced was still pinched from years of starvation and terror. The ministrations of Twanne and Konyetta had smoothed much of the roughness from her skin and helped heal many of the scars, but they were still there. She was still the kind of female that no respectable man should ever think about being seen with. Graig was obviously a respectable man. Why did he want to be seen with her?

Graig didn't seem to mind her silence and guided her into the bakery, the smells of which brought an enormous rumble to her stomach and a badly hidden smile to Graig's lips.

"Now, Miss Jenfsen, I'll not hear any polite refusals this time. I was planning to buy enough for several meals, so there will be plenty for you, as well. Please, pick something that appeals to you!" He waved grandly at the interior of the shop. Sylenn nodded and managed a small smile in return. He beamed; she hastily ducked her head and looked around.

It was a nicer shop than she was accustomed to being in, certainly. The woman behind the counter eyed her closely, rightly thinking that a drab like she appeared to be would try to steal something. Sylenn didn't do that (anymore), but the careful watch didn't bother her. She purposefully stuffed her hands into her pockets and focused on the wares.

After a short time, they exited the shop, Graig with a large parcel under his left arm and Sylenn's hand under his right. Walking two blocks over, they came to the park that Graig had mentioned. It was small but quite lovely. Sylenn recalled that the Descendants had fought a few Sukkers here barely a month before, yet already the damage was repaired and the beds replanted. She wouldn't have guessed it if she hadn't already known.

Graig led her to a wrought-iron bench and formally seated her. Then he sat himself and began unwrapping their lunch.

"I hope you don't mind, Miss Jenfsen, if I take a moment to offer a prayer of thanks for this meal. I'm a Sacerdotist, and I feel it a good thing to thank God for anything I eat."

Sylenn nodded and offered wryly, "I'd always thank God, too, whenever I got to eat."

Graig blinked, then smiled hugely. "I imaging you would! And I appreciate your understanding." He bowed his head and offered a simple, heartfelt prayer. Sylenn ducked her head but kept her cap on.

"Alright, then, let's eat! I don't know about you, Miss Jenfsen, but I'm famished!" He tore off a hunk of bread and handed it to her. They passed the small pat of butter back and forth and shared the slices of cheese. Eating seemed to be the only thing that kept Graig from talking, Sylenn decided.

Swallowing his mouthful, Graig asked, "If I may ask, Miss Jenfsen, how have you been these past weeks?"

Sylenn took her time chewing and swallowing. "Fine. Doing things, running errands for my brother."

"Oh? And how is he doing?" It was the kind of thing one would say at a polite party (Fulenthen had by now attended a few of those, at Laillmen's behest), something one said but didn't mean or care about the response to. Graig, however, seemed to be genuinely interested. He was quite good at being sincere, she decided.

"He's fine. Still mad at me, but he'll get over it." She took a large bite.

"I see. He must care for you a great deal." Graig took a mouthful as well.

"Um, yeah," Sylenn mumbled around her meal. "Guess he does. He just shows it, um, forcefully."

"I can understand that!" Graig laughed. "I was a terror when it came to my sisters! I wouldn't let them have an inch of space when I thought they'd stepped out of line. They were not pleased with me, as you well know." Sylenn murmured something and took another bite.

When the silence dragged on, she asked, "How many sisters do you have?"

"Two, and both of them happily married to men I approved of," Graig replied with a grin. "One older, one younger. I'm quite grateful that they put up with me for so many years!"

He sobered, looking down into his lap. "I am also grateful that they forgave me for my actions earlier this year."

Sylenn paused. Did he mean ...?

"I hope that it does not alarm you to know, Miss Jenfsen, that I was ... taken, I suppose is the word for it, by a Sukker. But don't worry! The Descendants were able to free me from it! The newest one, Fulenthen Sonelion, used a new technique to completely free me. But when I was under its sway, for that month and six days, I ... did things and said things that were hateful and horrible. I still cannot believe that I did that. It is my great shame.

"And my redemption, in a way. It forced me to realize some things about myself that I hadn't ever considered, which is the reason why I've taken such an interest in you, Miss Jenfsen. I know you've been wondering about my motives; I can see it on your face. I realized, when I awoke from that dark month, that I'd become incredibly self-centered, so focused on my career and on money and everything else in the world that I'd forgotten that there are other people in it. I lost sight of everything I'd ever claimed to believe about God and faith and responsibility. When Fulenthen Sonelion freed me from that monster, it was as though I had a new chance at life. I decided to make the best of that gift.

"That means paying more attention to what goes on around me and to the people I may come across. Life is too precious to waste, I think." He smiled at her, and she could see a shadow of concern in his eyes. She thought for several minutes as she finished her meal.

"Am I a charity case, then?"

"Of course not!" Graig immediately denied. "I think of you as a fellow human being and an intriguing woman whose company I am fortunate to keep!"

"'Intriguing'?" Sylenn repeated glumly. "I'm far more freakish than intriguing."

"Not at all, Miss Jenfsen," Graig assured her.

"You've decided you won't waste your life, so you take up with a beggar woman?" she shot back. "Trying to get a bit more variety, is that it?"

"Not at all, Miss Jenfsen," Graig repeated calmly. "And I know that you're pressing me for honesty. I hope that you believe that I _am_ being honest. I was first concerned for your safety and your wellbeing. As we talked a bit more, I realized that you are an interesting person and that I wanted to get to know you better. Yes, I did hesitate. I wondered what I was doing, reaching out to someone so obviously capable of taking care of herself. And, yes, a part of me found your dress and manner cause for concern. I let that thought have its run, and then I set it aside.

"What someone else says, does, or wears is never an excuse for my own words, actions, or thoughts. I had a choice to make as I stood on the side-walk and watched those ragamuffins slink off. I could go on my way, having done my good deed for the day, or I could challenge myself to be the better man and make certain that you were well. I'm rather glad I did stay, Miss Jenfsen; I'm very glad to have met you and gotten to know you little."

Sylenn stared at him, trying to keep her laughter and disbelief hidden. For whatever good that did; Graig seemed to be able to read her like one of his news-papers. The bizarre thing was that Graig took himself seriously; he actually thought he meant what he'd just said. All that about ... Fah! She ducked her head under her cap.

Graig laughed self-consciously. "I know, I sound like a mad man. And much as I would like to say more to convince you of my sincerity, I fear I must return to my office. I do appreciate you stopping to have lunch with me, Miss Jenfsen, and I hope that we will meet again." Graig stood and smiled down at her.

Sylenn darted a glance up at him, carefully keeping her hat brim covering one eye. The man was a fool. She shrugged noncommittally.

"Well, again, thank you, Miss Jenfsen. I apologize that I'm not able to see you to your destination. Ah, if you're ever around this area again, I usually finish with my work duties about five-thirty in the evenings. If you'd like to join me for a real dinner, you only need let me know." He gathered the extra food, bowed, and left.

Sylenn watched him go. Poor simp; he was going to be sadly disillusioned one day. And how stupid did he think she was? He did think of her as a charity case, as some kind of atonement for his "sin" of being taken by a Sukker. As though anyone had any control over whom a Sukker took for its host; they seemed to take anyone who wasn't a Descendant. There wasn't any way to predict who would or wouldn't become a Drone any more than you could predict who would or wouldn't become a Descendant. While Descendants were always born to a previous Descendant, those bloodlines were scattered far and wide across Alluvia.

Now would be a perfect time to sneak in to see him at work, to see if he acted the same around others as he did around her. To see what effects his time as a Drone had on his life, aside from the nonsense he spouted to her. Sylenn rose from the bench and made her way out of the park, toward some buildings that had a promising alley-way between them. She got half way there before the beast scented prey. Snarling, she changed directions.

### Chapter 16

It was six months before she got to see Graig in his natural habitat, six very long months. Gontozenel activity rose sharply around the world, keeping all the Descendants running to the dropping point. Satherlin went an entire week without unsuiting because of all the conferences demanded by various world leaders. Lyshunda had finally threatened him in some unpublicized way to force him to sleep. He didn't emerge from his quarters for two days. The rest of them travelled in shifts, spread so thin that a trap in Comoryos nearly killed Clatyn. Satherlin took the news grimly, but there were too many incidents to send them out in teams.

Sylenn had all the alone time she wanted; and all the activity the beast craved. They brought back dozens of Gontozenels every week, and the beast consumed every one of them that Demney would allow It. The doctor was still upset about losing his research subjects, but he was no match for the combined will of the Descendants. Every Sukker that the Hunter ate was one that couldn't come back to make another Drone.

The beast should have been fat and happy, sated with all the energies it consumed. But each time Sylenn woke, she felt Its gnawing hunger; every day was driven by Its howling need. The Ancients had crafted well in making sure their pet would always do their bidding.

One of the most dissatisfying events of the rest of that year was the public outcry against the Descendants. This, too, was a world-wide effort and was also gaining momentum. The primary instigator refused to identify with the Contemptors but rather claimed to be taking a more "practical approach" to the issue of the Descendants and was an Ivrithan woman named Halina Holthim. A leader in the suffrage movement, she'd made challenging the legitimacy of the Descendants her platform. The Descendants agreed that she'd made being an unholy pain her life's goal.

The week that Satherlin stayed suited up was half spent dealing with Halina's demonstrations. Groups around the world rallied behind her ideals, which she had printed and shipped using her own monies; her words were strong enough that even men who would never otherwise listen to a woman used her arguments. They wouldn't admit such a thing, of course, but the words were nearly the same.

Konyetta returned from one mission with a tale of how the citizens of Berziny had actively hindered her during a fight with a Drone, allowing it to escape. Tad had inadvertently killed three men who'd tried to stop his battle. Hae had been screamed at by a group of women after one of her battles had caused a wall to fall on a child, who died immediately. The older woman had taken to her bed for three days afterwards and when she emerged, she had aged another ten years. Satherlin had given her permission to stay at the Temple, but Hae declined.

"I couldn't have known that the boy would die," she'd whispered, "but I believe that what we do is important. I can't let ... a casualty, even one so terrible, keep me from doing this." Her eyes remained dry and her gaze remained haunted. Hae hardly spoke after that, but she suited up every day and went wherever Satherlin or Lyshunda bid her.

Sylenn finally met Halina on one of her excursions to Suljem. The Hunting trips she'd taken had made her more familiar with the city than any of the other Descendants, so any incidents in Ivrithan's capital were usually given to her, if she wasn't off somewhere else. The Drone she followed that day charged down an alley-way and into a square filled with people before Fulenthen caught up. In truth, she'd ended the chase because of all the people; there was potential for them to be injured, so she cut short the beast's fun.

As she finished funneling the Gontozenel's energy into one of the balls, Fulenthen became aware of the focus of the crowd. They shifted restlessly around her, muttering angrily to one another. Gently lowering the man to the pavement, Fulenthen turned her attention to them.

"Take no hasty actions, good people," a woman's voice rang out. "We are civilized persons, not base rabble!"

Fulenthen turned her gaze to the platform erected at the far end of the square, some thirty yards away. Several figures stood there, the central one an elegantly dressed woman. This must be Halina.

"This poor, benighted woman is not our enemy; she is a victim!" Halina continued, recapturing the crowd's attention. "A victim, as we all are, of the ingrained whimsy that an elite group of men and women are needed to 'protect' the world from danger. What danger is that, I ask you? What danger is there that you cannot defend yourselves against? These Descendants claim that they protect us from the Sukkers, whom they now call Gontozenels, but we must ask ourselves if this is a real threat! Are the Sukkers such a danger? When do they strike out? When do they cause harm? Only when the Descendants chase them! Only when they are hunted like foxes across the meadows of our country!

"I ask you, reasonable men and women that you are, to consider carefully as you look upon the poor, twisted form of this woman, who cannot even clothe herself to satisfy base decency. If she did not chase, would the Sukkers run amuck? I ask you to think, good people, if we could not perhaps defend our own cities, our own homes, from these so-called Drones, who show no signs of violence until the so-called Descendants appear! It is the old argument of first creating criminals and then punishing them. If Descendants did not chase after the Sukkers, the Sukkers would not run in blind fear and cause panic in their flight. Deprived of this false cause, the Descendants need never be Awakened and could have normal lives, be normal people and productive members of their countries, rather than the drain upon us all that they are now.

"Think, good people!" Halina continued on the same vein, weaving a dream of a world that didn't need Descendants, where poor fools who had deluded into thinking themselves gods would be mere mortals again, and where the common man could be proud of his ability to protect his own home and family. It actually sounded good to Fulenthen. Most of it, anyway.

It would be good if more people would take action against the Drones, would step up to protect and defend, and give the Descendants a break once in a while. Every time she unsuited, all Sylenn could do was collapse into her bed. It would be a good thing for the regular people to help out. But eliminating the need for the Descendants altogether? That wasn't going to happen until all the Sukkers were in the beast's belly.

Fulenthen truly wished she could give over the responsibility for tracking down and containing the Drones. Yet she knew that regular humans couldn't handle what the Drones could throw at them. But the "mere mortals", as Halina called them, could still help. Maybe she would talk to Laillmen about that when she got back.

"Fulenthen Sonelion!" Hearing her name yanked her thoughts back to the square. Halina pointed grandly at her. "What do you say? Do you truly think you are superior to any of us? That we would be helpless without you and your brethren?"

Once again, Fulenthen mentally blessed the extraordinary calm that came with the suit. Sylenn would be struck speechless by the sudden attention, but Fulenthen easily gazed back at the people and their leader. "Superior? Why, no, Mistress Holthim; I do not believe that we are superior to any other human. Physically, we may be different, but inside, at our core, we are not. We want the same things you do: safety for our homes and families."

"And what families are those?" Halina cried triumphantly. "You leave your families when you Awaken; you abandon your parents and husbands and wives and children in order to pursue this grand crusade that destroys what it claims to protect!"

"And why are you not tending to your family, Mistress Holthim?" Fulenthen shot back with a sharp grin. Halina flushed.

"I suspect you are not caring for your family for the same reason as we have: because you believe in something greater that you feel you must do. You chose to give your time to this cause; we were made to give our lives to ours. No-one chooses to Awaken, Mistress Holthim. It surprises all of us."

"And yet you insist on making more of yourselves, on finding more people to Awaken! You speak as though you regret becoming the thing you are, yet you would make another into one just like you. Is that not true, Fulenthen Sonelion?"

The way Halina repeated her name grated on Fulenthen's nerves. "Until the Gontozenels are destroyed, there is need for Descendants, Mistress Holthim. We are the only ones who can withstand their attacks and the only ones who can destroy them."

"Ah, but you are the only one who can truly destroy them, is that not so, Fulenthen Sonelion?" Halina looked sly as the breeze whipped her coat's collar around her face. "I have it on good authority that until you came along, no-one could even locate a Sukker until it defended itself. Yet your special ability is sniffing them out; that's why they call you the Huntress. The Descendants have told us for thousands of years that the Sukkers number in the tens of thousands; do you truly think you can find them all?"

Fulenthen's hands curled slowly into fists at her side as her black eyes took on a feral gleam. "I will find them all, Mistress Holthim," she said softly, not caring if she could be heard, "Starting with you."

The leap was effortless, a tiny flexing of muscles in her legs to send her airborne. To those watching, it likely appeared that she had vanished. In truth, she soared above the crowd, traveling faster than unaided eyes could track, heading for the platform. Landing gently next to Halina, she towered over the well-dressed woman who hadn't registered her presence yet. When she did see Fulenthen standing there, she screamed softly and jumped back a pace before a large, strong hand caught her arm and held her fast.

"Now, Mistress Holthim, you are an interesting case," Fulenthen murmured.

"Un--unhand me, you beast!" Halina cried, regaining composure through anger. Her companions, including a burly man likely hired for this sort of situation, rushed over. Fulenthen comfortably ignored them. If they attempted anything, they would hurt Halina, not Fulenthen.

"Beast, am I?" Fulenthen grinned, allowing a little of the creature she carried to show in her solid black eyes. Halina saw It, and fear momentarily swept away her anger. "Mistress Holthim, you have no idea. And I have no idea what to do with you. You are not contaminated, yet you reek of Gontozenel. You are not a Drone ... but someone near to you is."

Halina gaped, twisting to glance owlishly at the people on the platform with her. They each stammered a denial before Fulenthen's chuckle cut them off.

"Oh, no; none of these. I would have gone after them first, if I had smelled the taint on them. No, Mistress Holthim, not someone here, but someone else very close to you is a Drone, and I wager that you do not even know it."

Halina struggled harder, so Fulenthen let her go to prevent injury; the sudden release sent the woman staggering back several paces.

"How dare you lay hands on me?" Halina demanded. "This outrage is precisely the sort of behavior we need to be rid of! Good people, you have witnessed this with your own eyes! When put to the stand, when asked direct, disconcerting questions, the Descendants respond with strong tactics designed to inflict fear in all of us! See how little regard they give to our persons, to our dignity, as they hurl baseless accusations so that we would no longer probe them for the truth!"

Fulenthen ignored the speech; she was still trying to puzzle out the smell on Halina. Definitely a Gontozenel, and thick, almost like contamination. Someone she worked or lived with, then, more likely someone she lived with. But how would she not know that she lived alongside a Drone? They always acted out in some way, always acted different after the Gontozenel took over. Had she not noticed? Perhaps if it were someone new ... but the scent was so strong, so ingrained, that Halina had to have been associating with that Drone for a long time. Years, at least. Perhaps she had met the person after the Sukker had moved in ... which could make it a very old Sukker indeed. This bore watching.

Leaving the rhetoric behind, Fulenthen set off after fresh prey.

### Chapter 17

Her feet tap lightly on the pavement as she runs. Breaths come evenly to her lungs. Dodge the debris, leap gently over obstacles. Focus on the prey, but do not forget that there are mobile obstacles, such as the angry man waving his fist as she flashes by. A terrified cat that dashes for cover. The carriage that cannot stop in time. These are distractions, but small ones. She stays the course.

The woman she follows is cunning, flitting from side to side, behind objects, around pedestrians who cry out as she shoves them into milling about in confusion. A few even attempt to keep the Hunter from the hunted. No matter; these are unimportant distractions.

Pleasant as this is, this hunt must be kept brief. There are too many other hunts to pursue, too many other prey to capture, to stay overlong on one. She speeds up to striking distance of the fleeing woman, the pads of her toe-less feet drumming the pavement, tail whipping behind her, discouraging interference. She pulls a ball from the bandoleer, reaches out, and taps the woman on the side of the head. The woman screams as energy forcibly drains from the human body, then turns swiftly and lashes out with a knife-edged hand. A dodge, a feint, and she catches the woman's stabbing hand in her free one. The other human hand meets the activated ball, bringing another scream and weaker struggles.

Spectators gather, drawing a small amount of her attention. She swiftly puts them from her mind and focuses on the sobbing woman. She lowers the woman to the pavement to get a better grip on the prey. The prey is crafty but not old; its struggles are in vain. She is dimly aware of gasps as she lifts the flickering form of the prey out of the Drone's body and forces it into the ball.

Explosions rock the street, literally shaking it beneath feet and wheels. Loud hums precede multiple blasts and resulting detonations. She crouches on the pavement, teeth bared in a snarl as shattered cobbles rain into the street. This new prey must be very old; its command of its Drone is nearly flawless. More worrisome is its command of the others: three more Drones follow its lead, working in concert to herd her into the densely populated part of the city.

They want to fight where the most people could be injured. They want her to create casualties. It is not a new tactic.

She has never fought four at once. She has never fought any who had acted together, which frustrates her. She cannot focus on any of them long enough to strike. This is also an obvious maneuver. In a way, she is flattered. They know she is a threat, that It is a threat, and they want Them dead. The way they keep after her, the prey might just get their wish. Not that she will make things easy for them.

Leaping upward, she uses the nearest building as a springboard to shoot herself across the street. It is time to take initiative, to reclaim control of this battle. The Gontozenels seem prepared for her abrupt maneuver. Her tail twitches as she ducks another volley of blasts.

The beast snarls deep in her mind, Its animal fury building. It wants to charge, to shrug off the attacks as It had done in the past and simply consume the energy. She knows better. She knows It could not take in as much energy as these combined blasts, so she requires It to lie still as she jumps from window ledge to wall. Perhaps they will chase her if she leads them? She has an idea, now.

She ducks around a corner and reaches up to loosen her hair. When the Drones pound around the side of the building, they see only an empty alley-way. They do not curse, as humans might.

"Stay close," the leader, a thickly-built man of middling years, orders. "It must still be near. Sweep the alley-way. You, watch behind."

Two begin walking slowly down the alley-way, checking under and around the numerous heaps of trash, stacked crates, and rubbish bins. The leader looks forward, watching for movement. The fourth walks backwards, guarding the rear. They walk halfway down the alley-way when the rear guard screams and falls. The other three whip around to see him vanish in a swirl of green hair.

"Stand!" The leader cries. The whimpering of their companion echoes down the brick-faced corridor, tapering off into nothing. Minutes pass, and only the sounds of the city can be heard.

They are startled when the body of their former companion drops on their heads. They look down at the unconscious, cleansed man.

"Leave it," the old one snaps, walking back toward the alley-way entrance. Another swoosh, another cry, and one of the remaining youngsters is gone. The last youth lets off a blast at the vanishing shadow but sees no result.

"Come," the leader snaps without emotion, moving more quickly. He makes it to the end of the alley-way before his remaining follower also disappears. The Bastard moves with speed, so he must move with intelligence.

He runs through the people that have gathered, shoving them aside. Rounding the corner of a busy street, he dives into the crowd and assumes its pace. Skirting the occasional glance over his shoulder, he sees no sign of the Hunter, no sign of the Bastard that houses It. The heavy pedestrian traffic begins to thin as people peel off to side streets, and he is left more exposed. He spies a horse-drawn street-car filled with people. Ducking under the nose of a large e-wagon, he ignores the cursing driver and dashes to the street-car.

The street-car continues on its journey with no sign of pursuit. He looks around, beginning to feel nervous. Did It give up? Did It loose him in those few moments between taking the infants and his escape? Doubtful. He remembers how well It tracks.

The street-car reaches the end of its line, just at the far side of the northern market. He must debark, so he spends the next hour mingling with the crowds. He must prevent the Bastard from catching him alone. The Bastards do not like angering the hosts, so he remains in the public places. He has far too much to do, far too many orders, to waste time healing from an attack or risk capture. If he survives; it is the Hunter after him, after all. Nearly three hours have passed; hopefully the Bastard has given up by now and returned home in defeat, accepting the infants as her prize.

Losing those infants is a blow. They are needed, and they are valued warriors. Not as greatly as mature People, but needed. Were any other Bastard behind him, he would have felt safe within half an hour. But not from this one. Not only does she have the Hunter, she has some kind of invisibility that renders her undetectable even to his practiced senses. He must warn the others!

As dusk falls, the crowds thin. Falling in with the largest group, he wanders into the residential district. Not too much farther, and he will be behind safe--

A blow to his side, numbing pain in his head. Bands of muscle wrap around his waist, pinning his arms down. He shakes off the daze and reaches for his Power. The air crackles as it whips by; they are moving so fast! The arms tighten around him, squeezing breath from his borrowed lungs. Pitiful body, it cannot withstand the pressure of the embrace. He releases the Power, knowing it will stun the Bastard.

A throaty chuckle, and his Power is gone. He cannot see; they are still moving too quickly. The arms wrap around him, tightening further. He hears bones snap. That startles him more than the host's reaction to the pain. The Bastard has deliberately injured a host. Fear begins to nibble as he realizes that the Hunter must have taken over the Bastard.

Ignore the pain, ignore the Hunter. Reach deeply, reach fully. Gather it, shape it, form it, as taught. Take the time to direct it.

Unleash the Power on them both.

She drops him while moving fast enough that he crashes to the ground, bounces, and rolls a long time. His momentum halts in a large patch of vegetation. Ignore the pain, ignore the discomfort. He rises, then falls. Many bones are broken; the body is now useless.

She appears in front of him, a wisp of movement he barely registers. Powers erupts from him; he does not need the broken arms to channel it as the infants do. She avoids it.

Her hair is down, held by a band around her forehead; that must be how she does it, how she hides in plain sight. He must tell--

Stinging pain, blinded eyes. The thin song of a whip through the air. Another blow to the side, more numbing pain in the head. The Bastard is distracting him. She knows she must drain him carefully before she can take him. But he is no infant, to be so easily caught. He hears her movements now.

A hum, an explosion. She flies backwards at an angle, crashing into a small copse of trees, which break and topple. A snarl, angry and pained. The counterattack comes more quickly than he expects, slamming him into the grass. The body is giving out; he must act quickly.

He feels her near and looses another blast. This catches her fully, lifting her far into the air. He takes gasping breaths into failing lungs as he searches. There!

The man shrieks as the shadowy form erupts from his back. As the corpse falls to the ground, the wraith speeds across the park toward the young man who had been watching the battle with fascination. He sees the approach and turns to flee.

The shadow catches him in the back, sinks in, and wrests control away; the host hardly stumbles and continues running. He can now get away from the Bastard before she gets up. If she gets up. Such uses of Power are very effective.

His feet pound the cobbles, his breaths coming deep and purposefully. This host is healthy, so it runs for a long while without tiring. When he must rest, he drops behind a rubbish bin deep in an alley-way. There are smells here that should foul his trail. Even the Hunter cannot track a newly acquired host.

Pain explodes as the rubbish bin slams into him, shoved from the other side. The impact throws him several yards down the alley-way, rolling heels over head to slam into another metal bin. He cannot rise before she is on him again, the small prison aiming for his head. He quickly pushes Power through the host's mouth, directly into her face. She flies backward again, long green hair streaming, long tail trailing.

The blast pushes her through the wall of the building and deep inside it. Plaster showers into the air as desks shatter; wooden beams splinter and impale nearby objects, some of which scream. When she stops up against a metal desk of substantial build, she does not immediately rise. Her black eyes blink once, then blink again. Her lips slowly pull back into a snarl.

She freezes as a hand appears in front of her. Her eyes follow the palm to the sleeve to the face. A familiar face.

Jerell Graig stands over her, dust settling on his shoulders.

"Up you get, Fulenthen Sonelion. It's still out there; you've got to catch up with it before it does anything else. Or gets away."

She blinks again, then grabs his preferred hand. She does not need it to rise. The faith that comes with it, however, is bracing. She nods, then returns the way she came, easily leaping over or around people and rubble.

The prey has moved, but not far. Will it jump again? Neither of Them can remember prey jumping like that before. The others need to know this. Therefore, They must survive. The suited body cannot feel pain, but it can be injured. Theirs is weakened, so They must proceed cautiously. They must not be caught so foolishly.

As They clear the edge of the hole in the building, a ball goes flying ahead of Them. The prey bats it aside with contempt, but it misses the second one, which connects solidly. It remains only a second before the prey swipes it aside.

As she descends from the hole in the building, she thinks. Now is the time to try a different tactic, a more dangerous one. She will not survive this battle if she does not gain the advantage.

With no time to reconsider, she yields to the beast.

A snarl turns into a scream as It falls on the prey, which releases another incredible blast that It swallows. The mouthful is large, but It devours it as It grabs the small body and smashes it into the ground, stunning both prey and host.

Before the prey can recover, It drinks deeply of the essence, tearing it from the prey's control. The body feebly struggles; the prey lashes out. It absorbs the blow, somehow managing to continue Its messy indulgence. The body below is mangled, mortal blood now mixing with the energy, souring the taste.

It pauses. The Masters. The Masters have other means of getting the prey out. Why is the Master holding It not using the means? Why is the Master not doing anything at all?

It allows the prey's body to lower a few inches. The Master is still. The Master is not doing anything. It is even more still than it was before it was the Master. It is trying to communicate.

The hand twitches. It looks down, sees the means. Why does the Master not use the means? It has the prey securely now, why does the Master not move? Frustration brings a small snarl. The hand twitches again. Why?

The prey twitches, drawing Its attention back. It continues to eat, swallowing another large lump of essence flung out.

There is much more essence in this prey; this is the largest prey that It has encountered in a long time. Since the old Masters had hunted with It. It realizes that it cannot continue to eat for much longer. And still the Master does nothing!

The hand twitches yet again, and It angrily swipes the air. The hand falls on one of the means stored on the Master's body. The means activates at the touch. It stares for a second. Was the Master attempting to tell It that It could use the means? By Itself?

The Master had yielded the body to It. The Master was not fighting It or screaming at It. The Master was waiting. Waiting for It to move.

A grin splits Its face as It grips the activated means and slams it into the side of the prey's head. The host body is all but dead and cannot respond, though the prey attempts to fight. It is weak now, so it cannot flee, though it tries. There are many host bodies nearby, but It has the prey held too tightly for another jump to happen. Pulling the prey out of the host, however, is easier contemplated than completed. It needs help. It reaches for the Master.

They reach Their hand deep into his chest, feeling for the node of the Gontozenel's presence. Grasping it, They pull.

The shriek echoes through the alley-way, eliciting cries from spectators who clap their hands over their ears. The Gontozenel clings to the body, desperate to avoid the inevitable. Its form slowly emerges from the flesh of the young man: black, twisted, unrecognizable. They focus narrowly on detaching the tendrils of energy the Gontozenel has frantically dug into the man's bones.

They pay no attention to the gasps, the hushed conversation, the sudden flashes of light in the darkness of the alley-way. Second by second, They draw Their quarry out into the open. Now the flashes of light become distracting, and They send an annoyed growl over Their shoulder.

Finally, the prey clears the body. They do not wait but immediately force it into the ball. It barely fits. The Hunter reluctantly consumes a little more energy than It wants to so that the Gontozenel will fit. Once the ball confirms the prey's capture, It slides back and releases the body to the Master.

Wearily, Fulenthen lowers the corpse of her captive to the ground before resting her head on her forearms.

### ~~~~

"Did you see that?"

"She ripped him apart!"

"I can't look; it's so horrible!"

The whispers finally penetrated Fulenthen's foggy mind. She raised her head and used the last of her strength to stand. She wasn't in pain, but Lord was she tired. She'd chased the Drone across half the city over half the day, waiting patiently for him to get out of the crowds to some place without too many people to get hurt. Absorbing the blasts from such an old Sukker, even with the beast's help, was more exhausting than running twenty leagues in her own body.

There was nothing she could do for the poor young man lying in his own blood at her feet. It would be for those standing around, criticizing and gossiping, to find his family and lay him to rest. On impulse, she bent down and straightened him out, crossing his hands over his chest and smoothing his face. Little enough.

"Alright, everyone!" a man's voice rang out. "We've all work to do; let's get about it! Come on, move along! The Constables will be here in a moment, so let's get clear. You two, help this woman inside and get her something to drink. Men, if you're not doing anything, then let's get to work on clearing this rubble."

Graig organized the crowd of on-lookers into a working team. Gradually they stopped staring at Fulenthen, standing immobile over her victim.

Graig took a moment to look up at her. "Are you alright? Fulenthen Sonelion?"

It took her a moment to reply. "Yes. I will be fine."

"You can make it back to... ah, the Temple?"

"Yes. I will be able to return there on my own, Mr. Graig," she replied with the tiny amount of irritation that was all she could muster. He brightened.

"You remember me?" he chirped with his customary grin.

"Yes, Mr. Graig. I remember everyone I've Hunted." She glanced down at the reporter and left the alley-way.

### Chapter 18

"Will you look at this!" Lyshunda slapped a news-paper on the table of the common room.

"What is it?" Satherlin inquired softly, the same exhaustion every one of them felt making his voice rasp slightly.

"Look at what our little Sister has been up to!" Lyshunda stabbed her finger at the headline.

**NEWEST DESCENDANT TEARS MAN APART** , the page shouted up at them. Mosin groaned as he read it, prompting Hae to rub his shoulder comfortingly.

"But this isn't the most notable thing," Lyshunda continued, tracing her finger down the page. "We should all be accustomed to their inflammatory accusations by now. What's truly interesting is how fair this article is. Look here, he says, '... on-lookers could clearly see the strain this courageous Woman took upon herself in order to not merely halt the Depredations of another violent Sukker but to capture it and keep the Population safe from its rampage. Fulenthen Sonelion was obviously exhausted by her Long Battle and yet purposefully took time before leaving to pay her respects to Immett Foggler, the Sukker's Victim.

"Fulenthen Sonelion stated that she remembers every Man, Woman, and Child whom she has ever assisted to free from the Control of the Sukkers. Clearly these are not the words or actions of a Person who considers herself superior to the average working Man, as some rabble-rousers claim. This most controversial of the Descendants, with her ability to track down Sukkers and safely remove them from their Victims, gives us all hope for a Future without the fear of losing our Humanity to the Sukkers.'"

"Sounds like just another Worshiper to me," Clatyn grunted.

"I'm not certain of that, Clatyn," Tad mused, rubbing his chin. "If he is a Worshiper, he's the most self-restrained one I've ever heard. They usually rave about us more than this, and always mention something about how much better we are than they. This fellow writes as though he thinks we're all equals in the fight. Yes, he allows our powers, but otherwise ..."

"He's the one from the press conference," Mosin muttered darkly. "The first one Sylenn cleansed. He has a fixation with her."

"If he does have a fixation, Mosin," Satherlin replied, "then, as Tad said, he's the most self-restrained man in the world. News-paper pressmen aren't precisely known for restraint, after all. What makes this fellow different, I wonder? As I read this, he's given Sylenn (and us) a fair treatment, recounted the events with a minimum of exaggeration, and made us seem reasonable people who still care about the people we're trying to protect."

"I thought the same, and this isn't the first time he's written like this," Lyshunda added eagerly. "I kept watch on him after Sylenn and the Hunter cleansed him to make certain he was well, even before you asked us to, Satherlin. So I've read many of his articles, both before and after. Except for the time the Sukker had him, he's always been even-handed in how he reports things, which is probably why he hasn't had a front-page until today. He's not like any other news-paper writer I've ever read before. He seems to care about telling the truth."

Clatyn snorted loudly. "Journalists all claim to tell the truth, Lysha! That's how they sell their rags; no-one would buy them if they called it all lies."

"Well, this one uses far fewer lies than any other, alright?" Lyshunda snapped. She turned back to Satherlin. "I thought we might want to investigate this fellow further. We could certainly use a voice in the press that at least tries to tell the truth. What if we gave him special interviews, so that the real story could be heard? If we had everything written up to give to the news-papers, then they'd have to print it correctly, and people would know what's really going on, not what some idiot with an agenda spits out!"

Tad sighed. "Lyshunda, just because we give them a page with words on it doesn't mean they're going to print exactly that. Clat's right; they want to make money, and sensationalized _refugo_ sells far better than the truth does."

"But if we give all of them the same page and they start printing it wrong, they'll contradict one another, and then they'll have to prove that they were right, which means pulling out the original information that we gave them. And we'll have those originals, too, so we can prove what we said. If they continue to spew their vitriol on us, then they will dig their own graves!" She looked around, triumphant.

"The idea does have some merit," Satherlin allowed. "But I will advise caution against false hopes, Lyshunda. All we can do is try to get the right information out there; what others do with it has always been beyond our control, and it always will be. I will agree that having someone on hand to write up what needs to be said would be useful. So, we'll have to get someone to look into him. Niel, you still have your contacts in Suljem who could check his public records?"

Niel wiped the crumbs from his chin as he replied. "Sure do; most of my old classmates are practicing advocates with access to the Records House! And I even know some street urchins who would follow him for a while for a few coppers. Nobody ever pays attention to the homeless, after all."

Mosin growled something under his breath.

"What was that, Mosin? I didn't quite catch it." Satherlin craned around the wing of his chair to look at the younger man.

"Nothing," Mosin grumbled.

"I heard you mention Graig; if it's something we should know about, then tell us."

Mosin sighed angrily. "I said that Graig notices the homeless."

"That's right!" Konyetta exclaimed, sitting up from her sprawl on one of the settees. "That's how he met Sylenn, right, Mosin?"

Mosin's glare nearly left scorch marks in the air.

"Wait, he's met Sylenn? As Sylenn?" Lyshunda looked sternly from Mosin to Konyetta. "Why wasn't I told about this?"

"Goodness, Lyshunda, I didn't realize that we had to mention every interaction we have with outside people," Konyetta apologized. "Sylenn only mentioned it to me in passing, and I didn't think to say anything about it."

Satherlin turned back to Mosin. "And you knew about this because ...?"

"They were talking that one night last year when she stayed out too late in Suljem. When I went looking for her to tell her she should have checked in, I found them chatting away in some little Cafe in the theater district." Was it possible that Mosin's scowl could get any deeper?

"I see," Satherlin replied, settling back into his chair. "Now I recall Sylenn mentioning something about that at the time, but it was, as Konyetta said, in passing. So, Niel, you get your contacts to investigate Graig, see if he's the sort of fellow we can trust with our secrets. Lyshunda, I'd like to see all the papers of Graig's that you've collected. When Kyysha's back and rested, I'd like her to have a look at them with us; her time studying journalism could be useful."

The door opened, revealing Twanne and a large cart of food and drink.

"Thanks, Twanne!" Niel exclaimed, diving on the cart before she'd gotten it through the door.

"Yes, thank you, Twanne," Satherlin echoed, choosing to remain seated as Niel picked through the platters and bowls. "I'm surprised to see you; is Sylenn not awake yet?"

"No, poor thing is still sleeping like a brick," the young woman replied, giving up on moving the cart until Niel was done. "I woke her up long enough to pour some soup down her, but I doubt she'll remember it. She just drank it down and then flopped back on her pillow before I could so much as wipe her chin. Poor thing. What little she was able to tell me when she got back was that it had been a tiring fight, but I didn't think it would have her sleep for four days."

"It was a very old Gontozenel," Sylenn mumbled as she shuffled through the door. Mosin was at her side in an instant, wordlessly guiding her to a couch; she was still tired enough to allow him to. Konyetta shouldered Niel aside to fix a plate and cup for Sylenn.

"We're all ears," Satherlin replied with a grin. Sylenn nodded, took the plate from Konyetta, and stared at it blankly.

Lyshunda and Satherlin exchanged worried looks, as did several of the others.

"It was really old," Sylenn began, still staring at the plate without seeing it. "Maybe thirty years. Maybe more. It was also controlling some younger ones; ordering them around like a general. I wasn't expecting it, so they got in several direct hits before I changed my tactics. Drew them into an alley-way, where I could disappear and take them one at a time. He took off across the city and made sure he kept in a crowd. Wasn't until dusk that I could get to him without anyone in the way. Dragged him to a park and drained him a couple of times before he hit me again. Managed to pound him a bit, broke the Drone's body enough that I thought I had him.

"Then it jumped." Sylenn looked up at Satherlin, her drawn face grim.

"Jumped?" several of them echoed.

"That's the only word I've got for it. It tore out of the Drone's body and jumped, or flew, over to another man who was passing by. Took him on the run, bare seconds after leaving the first one, who was such a mess I didn't give him another thought. The second Drone acted just like the first, as though he'd been taken years before. Caught him in another alley-way, and he blasted me full on, point blank range."

Several hisses echoed through the room. Descendants generally didn't live through point-blank attacks.

"I'd hit him so many times with a couple different balls, I thought he wouldn't have much left. Sent me into a building, at least halfway through it."

"Three-quarters," Lyshunda clarified. When Sylenn glanced up at her, she added, "You've been out for almost five days, dear; the papers wrote it all up."

Sylenn nodded blankly, then returned her gaze to the plate, the contents of which she still hadn't touched. "I got up, got back out there. I could tell it still had enough to hurt me, and I was already hurting, ... I had to make a choice. So I let the Hunter have control."

Faces hardened around the room.

"But it wasn't as bad as I thought it might be. I knew I couldn't take the Drone, knew that I couldn't direct the Hunter well enough, so I let It go. It's learned, I think, because It didn't just start ripping. I think It was confused because I was letting It do everything. It took a few minutes, but I finally got It to realize that It could grab the ball and do the capturing. Took forever to get the thing out of him, and it had been in him, what, less that a quarter hour? Was like the shaman in Comoryos, only worse."

Quiana paled and sank onto a chair. She'd nearly died in that battle. Hae laid a hand on her shoulder

"Finally got it out, the beast eating as much as It could at the same time. I've never seen so much energy in one Gontozenel before. The beast was fit to burst; It couldn't eat any more. We got it into the ball and came back to the Temple. That's the last thing I remember."

Twanne grinned knowingly as she finished unloading the cart onto the big table; she'd dragged Sylenn's body into bed herself.

"You've done well, Sylenn, and we greatly appreciate your bringing us this news." Satherlin couldn't reach over to Sylenn, but she felt his intent nonetheless. "And I'm glad to see you up and about. You should eat, if you feel able, and drink; you've been without either for too long. While you're doing that, we've things to do. Mosin; I'd like you to go with Niel and assist him. Twanne will see that Sylenn is taken care of."

Mosin reluctantly peeled himself away from his sister and followed the still-eating Niel out of the room.

### ~~~~

Jerell fumbled slightly with his coat, brief-case, umbrella, scarf, gloves, and hat. Striding down the hallway of the nearly deserted building as he juggled the items, he grumbled softly under his breath, which fogged in front of him. The bitter winter winds chilled the whole building beyond the ability of boilers and sweaters to compensate, since there was now a huge hole angling up from the second floor to the fourth. Someone had nailed boards over the outside hole, which kept the worst of the snow out, but it did nothing for the icy air.

Finally managing to get his things in order, Jerell tugged the scarf into place as he took the stairs. So much to do! Being the only pressman in the building when Fulenthen had crashed in had been a marvelous boost to his career; his first-hand account made him the darling of the editorial board. It also made him the target of every other pressman, each of whom ruthlessly interrogated every other person who'd been there that evening.

Jerell didn't mind their antagonism; he'd become accustomed to the prevalent attitude among pressmen (and women) over the years. He let it roll off his back and focused on doing his job. Except for that one dark month and six days, he'd done alright. Not good, but alright. It was true, all those things he'd told Miss Jenfsen last summer; he really did want to do better than he had, and being taken was perhaps the best blessing in disguise that he could have had. Not that he'd recommend it to anyone.

His thoughts turned to Miss Jenfsen. Sylenn Jenfsen, now there was an unusual girl. There was something incredibly wild about her and something incredibly fragile. It was an intriguing-- no, an intoxicating combination. She was so strong, so able, and yet so delicate. At first glance, he'd thought her as frail as any debutant, but then he'd taken a second look and seen the steel in her eyes. It wasn't until he had her on his arm that he'd realized that she was dressed like a tramp and smelled as though she'd been digging in dumpsters. He was trained to notice details like that, and he hadn't.

And somehow, her shabbiness didn't really bother him. He wanted to know more about her. So what did he do? Ran his mouth like a fool every time he saw her. Nattered on like a school boy. Which was likely why he hadn't seen her in months, why she never told him where she lived or worked or ...

He sighed at himself, shook his head, and fixed his hat firmly. No use wasting time on something that wasn't going anywhere. When God willed, it would happen.

He opened the main door, closed it behind him, bent his head to the chill wind, and ran straight into someone. Stumbling backwards, he caught himself and the other person. He could barely make out facial features in the darkness.

"Miss Jenfsen!"

"Um, hello," she replied with her usual caution.

"What a pleasant surprise! What brings you over this way?" He realized he was holding her by her arms and hastily dropped his hands. Belatedly, he offered his right arm.

She ducked her head as she slipped her hand through his arm. "Um, I was waiting for you."

"You were? That's-- ah, well, that's most kind of you! Were you waiting out here in this freezing cold? You should have come up, or at least inside to the stairwell, out of this wind!" There he went, running his mouth again and completely unable to stop.

"It's alright," she (mercifully) interrupted. "I've got a good coat, and I wasn't out here that long."

"Wonderful! I hate to think of you standing out here, freezing for my sake! Ah, if I may ask, what did you wish to see me about?" They'd begun walking up the street, under the infrequent lamp light. He could now see that she was indeed warmly bundled in a very nice coat and furry hat. She even had a muff for her hands.

"Um," she began, stopped, and nearly buried her face in that muff. Straightening up and taking a deep breath, she continued, "Since I never gave you my address, I thought this the best way to let you know that I wanted to accept your offer for a dinner."

### Chapter 19

Jerell's heart leapt into his throat and continued out the top of his head, almost carrying his hat away. "Wonderful! I'm so pleased that you trust me enough to have come out! Would you like to go to eat tonight?"

She nodded wordlessly.

"Excellent; I am famished, and there is a lovely restaurant just ten minutes down this way that serves an excellent pork roast. Would that be acceptable to you?"

Another nod and a quick glance at his face that revealed a small smile on hers. His grin felt like it was splitting his face. What was wrong with him? He hardly knew her! Might do him some good to get to know her, then.

"And how have you been since last we met, Miss Jenfsen?"

"Good. Busy."

Now this was an unusual position for him to find himself in. Most girls would take any opportunity to chatter about their lives, and getting them to allow anyone else to say anything was the trick. How was he going to get anything out of Sylenn? Miss Jenfsen?

She helped. "I didn't tell you before because I wasn't sure how you'd take it, but I work for the Descendants." She flicked a quick glance up at him, gauging his response.

He blinked in surprise. "That-- that's amazing, Miss Jenfsen! May I ask what you do for them?"

She darted glances up at him as she spoke. "I can't tell you much, I hope you understand, but I work a lot in the Parliament building. There's a ... place for them there. I'm also out in the city, running errands. That's what I was doing the other two times we met."

"That does explain quite a bit, Miss Jenfsen. Do not fear; I respect the need for secrecy. I've no desire to pry into the lives of the Descendants."

"Really?" she drawled.

"Ha ha! Well, yes, I am curious, as anyone would be! Particularly about Fulenthen Sonelion, who saved my life. But I know that they have many pressures upon them, and the last thing they need is to have me snooping around their wardrobes! If they have them, that is. But I won't ask."

"That's not a very good attitude for a pressman to have," Sylenn noted as they turned the corner and dodged increased foot traffic.

"Yes, I do hear that from my editors upon occasion. But I don't think that getting a good story means that one need invade the privacy of others. It's one thing to have a person come forward and offer their story, and it's another to need to hear all the details for an investigation of a crime or something like that. Sneaking into someone's home and spying on them is base and cowardly."

"What of those who constantly offer their life stories to you?"

"Ah, you mean the socialites who regularly figure in the gossip pages. I am very happy to leave those columns to other writers. Yes, it would enable me to make invaluable connections with powerful people who could further my career, but at what price, I ask you? Not only would I have to write about events I consider utterly inane, but I would have to be so careful not to offend anyone, and I'd have to make certain I knew who was in public favor and who wasn't, which is something that changes every day!"

"What would you like to write about?"

"I want to write about people who wouldn't ordinarily be written about, events that usually get overlooked. I want to write news that actually matters to people, about things that affect and also about things they can affect. What good is it to tell readers about the latest Sukker attack if we don't also tell them how they can prepare for the next one, how they can help the families affected by the attack, or what else is going on in the city?

"It frustrates me to no end that we paint the attacks in such dire lights and rave about the dress Lady Fravren wore to the President's Ball, but we don't mention the need the widow of the last Drone victim for food and clothing for her children. We print all the ravings of the Pontinf and none of the exhortations of the leaders of the Sacerdotist Church. No-one cares about the other side of the story; only about the most excitable rubbish that gets the readers up in arms, like a tawdry dime novel!"

His passionate speech had carried them down the street and into the foyer of the restaurant. Suddenly realizing where they were, Jerell flushed. "Please excuse me, Miss Jenfsen; I have allowed myself to get carried away. Again."

She chuckled as she allowed him to take her coat. "I don't mind. At least you're honest. Better than most."

Jerell handed her coat and his to the doorman and turned around to reply. The words stuck in his throat when her saw her soft blue dress and tightly curled hair gently styled with a small clip over her left ear. It even appeared that she had some cosmetics on her face. In the low light of the entryway, she was breathtaking.

She ducked her head, but not before he saw the flush bloom on her dusky cheeks.

"I, um, thought I should wear something a little nicer than I normally do," she murmured, clasping her hands nervously.

"Ah. Ah, yes, you do look nice." With that brilliant observation, Jerell dragged his eyes to the maître 'd and requested a table for two.

He managed to let Sylenn talk for a good portion of the meal; it helped that he frequently forgot what he'd been about to say when the candlelight flickered over her face. He cursed himself for six kinds of a fool as he grinned stupidly at her.

Sylenn seemed very tense for most of the meal, but he rather expected that. The little she'd told him of her life would naturally make it difficult to trust anyone, and he was more than flattered that she'd chosen to trust him. As the meal went on, though, she relaxed a bit, even enough to gently tease him. When their waiter came around, however, she would tense again and avoided looking at him. She always stared after him as he left, but any jealously that might have flared up in Jerell's heart quickly died when she looked back at him and smiled.

After the waiter cleared their entrée dishes, earning him a quiet, "Thank you, Bainton," from Sylenn, she looked at her lap for several moments.

"Um, if it's not too much to ask, Mr. Graig, would you mind waiting for me?"

His mouth went dry.

"Um, I mean, I need to take a few moments of ... um, well, to powder my nose." She kept her eyes on her lap. "And I may be several moments. So, I wondered if you would wait for me to come back; we could have dessert, then, if you want any." She finally flicked her gaze up to his.

"Oh! Ah, of course, Miss Jenfsen!" He jumped up and hurried to help her stand. "Dinner needs to settle before dessert, and I don't mind waiting one bit! Take as long as you need!"

He kept grinning as he sat back down. Even as he wondered if she knew where the lavatory was, his smile didn't stop.

### ~~~~

"Hey, Bidnorowikz! Take this out to the bin, would you?"

"Sure," Bainton replied, dropping off his load of sauce-covered plates at the large sink. Grabbing the pail Gorge had flapped his large hand at, Bainton lugged it out to the alley-way behind the restaurant.

It wasn't easy, being here in Ivrithin, surrounded by pagan Worshipers. He missed the holy devotion of his native Comoryos, where men and women knew the Descendants for the false gods they were. At least he hadn't had to tell his fellow employees too many times that he didn't want to hear their blasphemous talk. If only the machinists in Suljem weren't the best, he might have been able to learn mechanical engineering in more civilized surroundings.

He hauled the pail up over the lip of the rubbish bin and dumped the contents in. He turned around and almost screamed.

A false one stood before him, brazen in her naked shame. She towered over him, hell-black eyes trying to consume him. He was vaguely aware of a thin tail swishing behind her. He'd heard of this one, this daemon-woman who ripped men apart and drank their blood.

"Bainton Bidnorowikz," she said quietly. Her husky, melodious voice sent shivers up his spine, and he felt himself falling under her spell, the spell of her daemon powers.

"You are a Descendant."

He didn't hear her. He didn't understand what she said. But she was speaking in Comoryoan! How did she know his language? How did she know his name?

A Descendant?

He dropped the pail and scrabbled backwards all of two paces before he smacked into the large rubbish bin. He was trapped by the daemon.

"You are a Descendant, and my Brother," the evil creature continued, staring at him with those hideous eyes. "But I would give you a choice, the choice that none before you has ever had. Now, you are as any other man. You will live as you will, perhaps take a wife and sire children, and continue on thusly. Take my hand, and you will join your Siblings in fighting to save the life you would give up. The woman you would have married, the children you would have sired, the employer you would have hired to. You can live among them and be as bound by the attacks of the Sukkers as any other, or you can stand apart from them and ensure that they live an untroubled life.

"I give you this choice. You do not believe that we are gods, and this is wise of you. We are not. Underneath this skin, behind these blank eyes, we are still the men and women we were before we Awakened. We still feel, we still think. We have chosen to stand apart, to sacrifice the lives we should have had in order that more people would live the lives they do have. But this was a choice we made after there was no alternative left to us.

"Our old lives were already gone; what was left to us but to continue as we were and do what we could? You now have the choice denied to us: you can choose to join us and fight to save your people, your way of life, or you can choose to simply live that life. I would not blame you for either choice you make; I wish I had been given it."

She stood there, staring down at him. His knees trembled as he stared up at her. Slowly, he began shaking his head; then he shook it violently.

"No! No, you hell-spawned witch! I will never become one of you, never give my soul over to damnation!"

"That is understandable," she interrupted him. "It is quite something to take in, and I would not require your answer now. Take the time you need to think, to consider what you need to do. If you make your decision tonight, walk down the alley-way that direction," she pointed behind him.

"One of us will meet you there and welcome you. If you do not choose to join us tonight, then go the other way and live the life you've chosen. If at any point you decide to stand aside from life and work to preserve that which you love, then go to the Parliament building and tell the guards that you wish to see Fulenthen Sonelion regarding your Mother."

With those ominous words, she stepped backwards and vanished into the shadows.

### ~~~~

"Ah, good! You're back!" Jerell jumped out of his chair to help seat Sylenn.

"Thank you for your patience, Mr. Graig," she replied shyly.

"Not at all, not at all. Are you ready for some dessert, of would you like another cup of tisane?"

"Tisane, please." She sipped appreciatively while he poured a cup for himself. "Tell me, Mr. Graig, if you would; if you could do anything, anything at all anywhere in the world, what would you do?"

"Ah. Well, give me a moment to think, if you would. There are a great many things I would like to do; I would love to travel about and see what's out there. Modern seafaring has made international travel much easier, as have the Rail-Roads and electrical carriages, so getting around isn't nearly so difficult. Why, did you know that a steam ship can take you all the way to Tuvaul in barely three months? I've seen some of their woodcarvings; it sounds like a fascinating place. I'll bet there are some amazing stories to find over there, and some incredible people."

Sylenn stared into her cup, not listening.

"I'm sorry, Miss Jenfsen, for rambling--"

"Sylenn," she said.

"Pardon?" He blinked at the non sequitur.

"You may call me Sylenn; I-- It makes me feel old to hear you call me 'Miss Jenfsen' all the time, like you're addressing my mother or something. I'm just Sylenn."

"Ah, I can certainly understand that, and I do appreciate the permission. Sylenn." He flushed and looked into his own cup. "Ah, well, it always makes me feel old and too much like my father to be called 'Mr. Graig', so I would be honored if you would call me Jerell." Another stupid grin that he could do nothing about.

"I will, Jerell," she replied, glancing at him. From any other woman, it would have been a coy, flirtatiously shy glance. _She_ truly was nervous.

"If I may ask, Sylenn, you've hardly mentioned your family. You said that you grew upon the streets, but I don't recall you saying how that came about. I don't mean to probe; I'm genuinely--"

"It's alright, Jerell. It's just a long and painful story. I haven't seen my family in over nine years, except for my brother. He found me last year. I ... had a falling out with them when I was still a girl, and ... I ran away from home. I spent almost half my life wandering from city to city, living off whatever I could ... scavenge. When Mosin found me last year, I made him promise not to tell anyone in our family. I think it's best that they consider me dead."

The depth of her pain checked by her quiet dignity impressed him. "But you want to see them again, don't you?" he asked softly. She looked up, hazel eyes green with hidden tears. _Don't drown_ , he warned himself.

"I-- yes. I want to see them. But ... Oh, there's so much I can't say. I still think it's better for them to think of me as being dead."

"Well, don't feel that you must tell me if you can't, Sylenn. But think about this: if you had thought they were dead, and they weren't, wouldn't you want to see them? Even if you parted on bad terms, wouldn't you want at least one more chance to speak with them? Think about it, Sylenn; take your time. It is an important decision and should not be made lightly.

"What is keeping our waiter, I wonder?"

### Chapter 20

"So, Sylenn. What do you think of Graig? Will he do?" Satherlin folded the news-papers he'd been reading and set them aside. Those Descendants who were not out settled themselves in to listen.

Sylenn, now wearing her customary baggy men's clothing and cap, didn't reply as she flopped into one of the couches. After a moment, she nodded without looking up.

"He'll do, I guess. He's awfully wet behind the ears, still thinks the world plays fair and nice. He's so naïve you almost can't believe he's ever been away from his mother. I asked him all the questions you suggested, and he sounds like he'd be open to it. When we talked about us, I mean the Descendants, he sounded supportive but not fanatic. He, um, only got fanatic when talking about his work. Digging in and finding the truth, telling the stories that no other pressman would because it wasn't sensational enough, and the like. So, um. He'll do."

"Good!" Lyshunda enthused, standing up from her seat at the table. "We've been waiting all afternoon for you to get back, and I've an impatient husband to get back to. I'll hear the full report tomorrow, if that's alright, Satherlin."

"Sure, Lysh; go on and spend the evening with your family. So, Sylenn; where's Mosin? Hopefully not trying to have a word with Graig?"

Sylenn smiled, a tiny twitch of her cheek. "No, I left him in an alley-way, waiting for an unAwakened Descendant."

"What!" Seven voices cried out in near-unison. Satherlin waved at them to silence.

"You found someone?"

"Um, yeah. And I talked to him, too, in that alley-way. (By the by, I confirmed that unAwakened Descendants _do_ know the Island language.) I told him what he was, and I told him he could choose whether or not he wanted to join us."

"What? Why?" Clatyn demanded, jumping up and stalking over. "We need all the help we can get; why didn't you just Awaken him right then?"

"For one reason, Clatyn, I was in the middle of my mission; I couldn't spare any more time to tend to him until Mosin could answer my wireless call and get there. For another reason, he deserves to have the choice!"

"None of us had a choice--" Satherlin began.

"And we should have!" Sylenn finished for him. "I can sense who's a Descendant, Awakened or not. I can give them the choice, so I'm going to! We don't need any more reluctant heroes moping around; we need people who are dedicated to finishing this! You all keep talking about ending the War, but that won't happen unless everyone here is completely committed to it from the very start. If we continue to drag in recruits kicking and screaming, then this War will last another three thousand years or more.

"I'm going to insist that he be given the choice, Satherlin, Clatyn, Lyshunda." Sylenn looked at each of them in turn, lips pressed to keep them still. After a moment, she continued. "If anyone, _anyone_ , Awakens him without his specific request, then I won't ever tell you when I find another unAwakened. Ever." She crossed her arms defensively and leaned back into the couch.

"How can you--" Clat began.

"Ease up, Clatyn," Tad said softly. "I think she's right. If-- If I'd had time to think about it, I might have come willingly. I would likely have needed a year or more to walk away from my congregation, to turn my back on everything I'd believed, but I would have done it. Our blood calls us to this heritage, and once we know of it, we cannot turn from it. Even as I followed my parishioners to the fight, something in me cried out. I thought it was holy zeal to destroy the daemon--"

Kylle snorted; he'd been the "daemon" sought by the Contemptors that night.

"-- but I have felt it since, and I know that it was the quickening of my birthright. Now that this man knows, he will not be able to deny it. He will come, though it takes weeks or months or years. If he does not come, then we are better off without him."

"Yes," Satherlin agreed. "I don't like it, but I agree with it. We desperately need new Descendants, but as Sylenn said, we need people who are committed to freeing Alluvia. If this man comes to us willingly, then that will cut his training time in half. Most of training really is getting used to the idea of being a Descendant, after all. Those who are prepared to learn, prepared to be Awakened, will be that much easier to train."

The door opened, and Mosin strode in, eyes automatically searching until they rested on his sister, who ignored him. Satherlin pre-empted his irritated question.

"I take it that he didn't come, Mosin?"

Distracted from his purpose, Mosin grumbled, "He didn't. Ran the other way like his coat was afire. Kept looking over his shoulder like he thought I was going to chase him down."

"Well, he is from Comoryos," Sylenn sighed. Several people winced, and Tad gave a low whistle. "It's difficult to find a harder group of Contemptors anywhere. They even give Berziny a run for it; at least Pontifists have creeds about being nice to unbelievers." Tad grunted in rueful agreement.

"Do you really think he will come, Sylenn?" Konyetta whispered.

Sylenn shrugged. "He might, he might not. You've all agreed that Descendants tend to know who they are, deep inside, like Tad said. Something in you drives you to do more, to be more. I can't say whether or not I felt like that; the beast overwhelmed any thoughts about it I might have had. If he's like most every one else, then he'll come eventually. But he does have a lot of cultural and religious stuff to overcome. Being taught all his life that we're evil daemons, he might not come. Who knows; he may even kill himself in order to avoid joining us. No way to tell what he'll decide. I tried to lay it out for him, that he was free to make his own choice and what those choices were.

"I don't know which way he'll go or what he'll go through to make that decision. All we can do is hope for the best. At least, what we think is the best. It may turn out that he wouldn't make a good Descendant, and it would be best if none of us Awakened him."

Satherlin nodded thoughtfully. "Alright. We all need to be careful when we're in Suljem to be sure we don't accidentally bump into him. I know that you're all careful anyway, but I think it bears repeating. No-one is to Awaken this fellow without his express consent. Is that clear?" He glanced around the room until he had everyone's agreement. Clatyn grumbled as he nodded.

"Good. So then, Graig seems to be a good candidate for our personal pressman. The next question is, do we want him here, at the Temple, or in Ivrithin, at the news-paper?"

"Not here!" Mosin immediately said.

"Well, it would be more convenient to have him here," Lyshunda mused, finally resuming her seat and twirling her hair thoughtfully. "There would be less delay in getting the information prepared for distribution, which is always a good thing. Also, isn't the point of having a pressman working for us that we don't need to write up the articles ourselves?"

"But do we want an outsider, who has no ties other than what we pay him, to know all of our secrets?" Clatyn rebutted. "If we bring him here, either he never leaves Temple Island again, or we somehow keep him from realizing that we can become human again. And what about all the families? How do we keep him away from them? And if someone offers him more money than we can, what's to stop him from running off and publishing everything?"

"Valid points," Satherlin agreed with a nod. "Niel? What does your research indicate for answers to Clat's questions?"

Niel sat up straight and furrowed his head as he thought. "Well, I haven't gone over all of it just yet, but I think he'd play us straight. It's interesting, though, just how much there is to find out about him; he's filed a lot of papers here and there. We're still getting information from the college he attended in western Ivrithan, but we do have a few of the papers he wrote for his classes there. Oh, and he was president of his fraternity for two years, and they did mostly social mission things. Based on what I do know so far, I think he'd be safe to bring here to the Temple. Now, you can't predict what a man will do for money; that can really change even the best man."

"But what would a man do for love?" Konyetta quipped from her seat.

Sylenn hunched deeper into the couch while Mosin tried to incinerate Konyetta with his glare.

"Oh?" everyone else chorused.

"Well, I can't say for certain," Konyetta said with a grin, "but if these two's reactions are any indication, this Graig fellow is quite taken with Sylenn. If he cares for her, then he might keep our secrets no matter what is offered him."

"Sylenn?" Lyshunda demanded.

"Um ..." Sylenn fiercely wished she could suit up and vanish. "I don't know. He's never said anything like that."

"Oh, come now, Sylenn!" Mosin burst out angrily. "You can't be that thick!"

"Thought so," Konyetta murmured smugly.

"Graig is practically drooling over you; he was grinning like an idiot the entire night! Surely even you can tell when a man wants to use you!"

"I can so tell, Mosin, and that's why I don't know about Jerell!" Sylenn snapped, coming out of her hiding place.

"Oh, on a first name basis, are you?" Mosin sneered.

"Yes! Because he's nice! I do know when all a man wants is my body; I lived on the streets for eight years, for God's sake! I lived with whores and pimps and pipe-dreamers and thieves and worse than that! I know that! And Jerell isn't like that!"

"That's because he's better bred than street trash, Sylenn; he's got better manners that make him sound sincere when he isn't. Comes from high breeding!"

"Um, actually," Niel dared to interrupt, "he was born low. Or near to it. His parents are poor textile workers from the outskirts of Hasa. He and all five of his living siblings worked in the mills with their parents from the time they were four years old (which has since been banned by the labor laws). He's the only one who was able to leave, being the oldest boy. He got into the local college on scholarships from his church, since his family couldn't put together more than fifty coppers in ten years to help him. They still live in the same one-room shack outside the mill. Well, some of the children have moved out into their own shanties, but you get the idea. Until he went to the college, he never associated with 'better bred' people."

"Then he learned his manners at college; what difference does it make? He's still trying to use my sister!" Mosin crossed his arms defiantly.

"You do realize, Mosin," Kylle drawled, "that you're not helping your case? You sound like every other over-protective brother in the world. The way you're carrying on makes me want to trust the man just because you don't."

Clatyn's poorly disguised guffaw didn't improve Mosin's expression.

"I think we've discussed this enough for one day," Satherlin announced, levering himself out of his chair. "Niel, please let me know anything else you uncover that would cast a different light on Graig. I'll discuss this with the town elders, since this will affect them as much as us, and make certain we're all in agreement. If we decide to move forward with this, Fulenthen will take our offer to Graig."

The door slammed behind Mosin, slightly off one hinge.

### Chapter 21

Jerell hurried into the small courtyard behind the Parliament building, his breaths coming in excited puffs. He could hardly wait to hear Sylenn's explanation of how the note asking him to come here had so mysteriously appeared on his desk. He also could scarcely wait to learn why she wanted to see him tonight.

He looked around the small area, lit by one bright lamp over a large double-door set into the Parliament building. The gaslight reflected on the snow, giving the entire courtyard a warm, almost comfortable glow. He looked around; it was deserted. Sylenn must be running late, or perhaps he was early. He hadn't been able to focus for the last half-hour of work, ever since he'd found the note. He'd practically run the entire way here.

"Good evening, Jerell Graig," a husky voice said behind him. He knew that voice. He'd never be able to forget it. He slowly turned around to face Fulenthen Sonelion.

"Good evening, Mistress Descendant," he replied, bowing deeply. She stared at him impassively, black eyes gleaming in the gaslight. Snow lightly dusted her hair and shoulders as she nodded to him.

"My apologies for the deception. I thought it would be better to have the note bringing you here come from someone other than a Descendant. Your presence is requested this evening for a special occasion. Please follow me; it is too cold out here to speak at length."

He nodded as she turned toward the doors. It was bitingly cold outside, but he didn't really feel it. She didn't seem to feel it either, and she wasn't wearing the three layers of heavy clothing that he was. Idly he wondered, not for the first time, how Descendants managed without clothing.

She led Jerell to the double doors, which opened at some unseen signal to reveal a guardsman bearing a rifle. He nodded wordlessly to Fulenthen and eyed Jerell professionally as they passed by.

Fulenthen led him around a corner and into a small room. When she turned to him, gesturing to several hooks where he could hang his coat and hat, he realized that all the ceilings here were very high. In fact, the doors were tall as well. She hadn't had to duck to enter any of them, even to get her high tail of hair through without scraping. Jerell suddenly felt very small.

"Please, be seated." She motioned to a large, comfortably solid table with chairs that was the only furniture in the room. A plate of rolls, a dish of butter, a carafe, and one mug were laid out on it. Fulenthen sat on the far side of the table, opposite the setting, resembling an adult at a child's tea-party. Jerell slid into the other seat, noting the small stack of papers in front of her.

"Please, refresh yourself, Mr. Graig. You have had a long walk through cold weather."

Obediently, Jerell poured himself a cup of steaming juava and took a roll. He then realized that they were from Jothun's cafe and still fresh.

"The Descendants have business with you, Mr. Graig, and we felt it best that one of us approach you rather than all of us." Fulenthen watched him with that same unperturbed gaze. Part of him wanted to be unnerved by that; the rest of him sat firmly on the unease and relaxed.

"Well, Fulenthen Sonelion, I am happy to be able to serve in any way I can. I would gladly have heard any of your Siblings, but I must say that I am happy you were chosen to speak for them. I never did get to thank you for helping me last summer."

She nodded slowly in acknowledgement. "You are welcome. It is my duty to Alluvia and her inhabitants to serve. The matter we wished to address with you is this: we have need of your journalistic skills."

Jerell listened in fascination as she calmly outlined the proposal. They wanted him to be their official spokesman? He had impressed them? His writing was good enough? They had prepared a contract for him? It made his head spin.

"Mr. Graig, we now come to the truly important details of this offer. We have reason to believe that you are an upright and honest man, but we do have concerns about your ability to respect our privacy. We lead public lives, so it is imperative that our private lives be kept private. We desire that the world know the truth of our public lives, what we do for Alluvia and why and how. But when we close the doors to the Temple, when we leave the public arena, we desire privacy. We do not wish to have the particular details of our homes and habits broadcast as though we were socialites seeking notoriety."

Jerell snorted into his coffee, nearly spilling it.

"What we desire from you, Mr. Graig, in addition to your honest and even presentation of the facts of our actions and motives, is your word, as a man and as a Sacerdotist, that you will not publish anything about us without our express consent and approval." She leveled her gaze at him. Though her face did not change, he could sense how serious she was.

"You have my word, Fulenthen Sonelion," he replied with equal measure. "And may I congratulate you? You obviously know me well enough to know how important keeping my word is to me. I think that displays remarkable foresight and laudable caution. You're taking a great step, trusting someone with all the information about you. In fact, if it would make it more comfortable for you, I could remain here, in Suljem, and stay completely separated from your personal lives. That way, none would need to fear I would learn what I should not."

Fulenthen's mouth ticked up at one corner. "The offer is deeply appreciated, Mr. Graig. We have discussed it among ourselves, and there are still those who fear to allow someone with no ties to us to be so close, in our inner sanctum. However, after much conversation, we decided that having you on hand at the Temple would be the most beneficial. We do not have time or desire to write up all the information to bring to you so that you could then rewrite it for publication. We would request that you come to the Temple and live there."

Jerell sobered, staring into the depths of her eyes. He took a deep breath before replying. "Much as I would like to say 'yes' at this moment, Fulenthen Sonelion, I must request some time to think about this. I need to be certain that this is what I should do. Am I correct in stating that moving into the Temple would mean that I would not be able to leave it?"

"The greatest possibility is yes, you would not leave the Temple again. It may be that, after a suitable time, you would be permitted to leave under escort, but for your safety and ours, you would be required to remain there." Her expression remained fixed, yet there was compassion in it.

He nodded. "May I have the remainder of the week to consider, then?"

"Yes. We will not require your answer until this time next week. You may send a note or come in person to the courtyard we entered through." She rose, towering over him so that he forgot to rise politely with her. He stared up at her.

"You may take your time here, Mr. Graig, to think about what we have discussed and read the contract. There is no need for you to hurry from this room. The guard will let you out whenever you wish to leave. Have a pleasant evening."

"Ah, before you leave," Jerell called out after her, twisting in his chair. She paused with her hand on the door lever. "Does Miss Jenfsen know about this?"

"Why do you ask?" Fulenthen turned back around to face him.

"Ah, she did write the note. At least, I presume she wrote it; I've never seen her handwriting before--"

"She did write it, at my behest," Fulenthen confirmed. "But the servants of the Temple do not always need to know why we ask them to do things."

"Ah. I see. Well, then, I suppose I shall bid you good evening, then, Fulenthen Sonelion." This time, he remembered his manners and stood up as she left the room.

"But Sylenn does know," she whispered as the door closed.

### ~~~~

"There you are," was Lyshunda's greeting as Sylenn exited the lift shaft. "We just got word that there's a massive Sukker attack in both Lesoth and Gernsey. They're going after the platforms there. We think there's at least ten Sukkers at each one, perhaps more. Satherlin, Clatyn, Kylle, Mosin, and Konyetta have gone to Lesoth; you, Niel, Hae, Tad, Quiana, and I will go to Gernsey. Hurry!"

### ~~~~

Smoke crawls sluggishly across the remains of what had been the busiest port in Gernsey. It lies in ruins, mere slivers of wood and brick in the wake of the three-day battle. They walk up to the last Gontozenel, the general of the squad of fifteen aged warriors. The woman lies half-buried in the rubble, clinging to consciousness through sheer hate.

"Bastard," she hisses at Them. "You are nothing but a Bastard, the unnatural melding of" she spits something unintelligible "that should never have been permitted! The Tesselëans were cursed fools to make you possible! To make either of you possible!" Her gaze shifts slightly as she looked at the Hunter.

"You hate them, don't you? Don't you? They stole you away from your kind, warped your body and mind, forcing you to do their bidding! You hate the killing, don't you, the consumption of unnatural food? Our Power sickens you, yet you cannot help but crave it! Hate them for what they did to you, for what you still have to do for them, the cowards!"

They crouch down next to her, placing another receptacle against her head. She shudders as it siphons off more of her essence. It fills too quickly, yet the Gontozenel is still strong. But there are no fresh hosts available; this, the fifth host in three days, is nearly dead, and the Gontozenel is just weak enough that it cannot force an escape.

"No," she whimpers angrily. "I will not be beaten! I will not go back, become an infant again! I have worked too hard!"

They do not speak as they place another ball against her head. Tears leak from the host's eyes.

"Daoin," she whispers. "Daoin, I have failed you. I have failed. Failed, failed. Ah!" Another filled ball returns to Their bandoleer. Another empty ball, the last They have, rises to her head.

"But at least here is one less of them!" she hisses with mad glee.

Their eyes flash as anger wells up inside Them. Rage and grief bring a snarl to Their lips as They drop the half-filled ball and rip into the prey.

### Chapter 22

On the northernmost side of the island where the Temple hid was a beautiful garden, lovingly tended and carefully guarded. Nearly two hundred people gathered in the bright afternoon sun to bid farewell to one of their own.

Risheri Macebyo stood with his arms fixed at his sides as his daughters, Auana and Nankoa, hugged one another. They stood in the midst of the crowd and yet apart from it, looking at their wife and mother's fresh grave. Hae's arms were around the young women; Quiana had taken the blast that would have killed her. After this, Satherlin had decreed that Hae would no longer go out on missions. She was too frail, and her heart had nearly given out a dozen times since she had unsuited. The medical doctors had protested her attendance at the memorial.

Sylenn stood next to Mosin, her hand clasped in his. It wasn't the first time she'd seen someone die. It wasn't the first time she'd seen an unfair death. It wouldn't be the last time, either. But this was the first time she'd known the person who died. It was the first time she'd cared about the person who had died.

After the final words, she marched over to Satherlin and sat next to him on the grass so she could look him in the eye.

"Their leader's name is Daoin, Satherlin. If we can find him, we may be able to end this once and for all."

"Any ideas how we do that?" Satherlin replied, wiping his red eyes.

"No. But I'm going to try. We've got to find a way to make them talk. Whenever we find an old one, we've got to catch it. I'll work with the Hunter on figuring out a way to freeze them so they can't escape while we interrogate them. But we have to change how we're doing this. If we keep fighting the same way we always have, then it will always be like this: a stalemate. Isn't a stalemate what made the Ancients create the Hunter and the Sukkers take hosts? Do we want that kind of thing to happen again, or are we going to end this?"

Satherlin didn't reply, for Risheri came up to them.

"This is your fault," the slender man said in lightly accented Island speech. "You all are at fault for this. First you bring shame to our family by making her like you, and now you have killed her. You have destroyed our honor; there is nothing left for us. We have nothing, no honor, and no way to redeem ourselves. You have taken all from us!"

Satherlin stood and faced the widower. "What would you have us do?" he asked quietly.

Risheri's fists clenched, but he did not speak.

"What would you have us do, Risheri? We cannot control who is and is not a Descendant. We cannot control who does or does not die. Your wife chose to fight; she chose to sacrifice herself to save another. We all make that choice! And we do it for you! For the people of this planet! If you have no honor, it is because you choose to see dishonor in the noblest humans to walk the earth! Your wife was an amazing woman, Risheri, and she was my sister. My daughter! As the leader of the Descendants, I owe a father's debt to each and every one of the Descendants!

"Do not think to heap shame on me, Risheri Macebyo. Do not tell me this is my fault. I already know that it is."

Satherlin turned and limped away. After a moment, Risheri called his daughters and left.

Sylenn did not watch them go. Her eyes remained fixed on the freshly turned ground.

"Sylenn? Are-- are you alright?" Mosin asked hesitantly.

Sylenn rose to her feet and walked toward the grave and past it. She continued walking until she stood on the shore, letting the waves lap at her shoes as she gazed over the water. After a moment, she sensed others behind her. Mosin and Konyetta.

"Sweetie?" Konyetta probed. "Will you be alright?"

Sylenn nodded. After a moment, she realized that there were tears on her cheeks.

"I-- I really didn't know Quiana that well. I've been here over a year, and I didn't ever get to know her. And now I never will. You all-- We've got to stop this. We have to. We shouldn't have to keep fighting some stupid war we don't even know the point of."

"We will," Mosin assured her, daring to take her hand. "Satherlin will find a way."

"Oh? And what are you going to do, Mosin?" Sylenn glared at him. "Are you just going to sit on your hands and leave it all up to him? Clatyn and Kylle have been giving you extra combat training, haven't they? Why don't you use that to come up with better ideas about how to capture the Sukkers?

"And you, Konyetta! Are you going to lie around sighing over Tad, or are you going to actually help him do his work? You think the whole world is made of pretty flowers and dreams, but when are you going to truly awaken and realize that you have to _do something_ to get anywhere? If you want Tad's favor, then _help him_. Don't just spout nonsense and hope it all works out.

"If we're going to get out of this stupid war, then we've got to end it. We've got to do something about it, not just hope that someone else will figure out a way." She scrubbed the tears from her face. "I'm sick of being a puppet. I'm sick of having no choices. So I'm going to do something about it."

### About the Author

Sharon grew up in the military, which did its level best to turn her into a highly trained and functional contributor to Society. Being of the independent sort, Sharon rebelled and ran away to live under a rock, where she still resides. After frittering away some years with college degrees and corporate jobs in an attempt to amuse herself, she finally overthrew the last vestiges of her upbringing and became a Writer. Having attained this exalted state, she nevertheless persists in seeking new forms of diversion, primarily by reading online comics, weblit, spamming her various Twitter feeds, and ignoring social responsibilities.

To participate in her lifestyle of choice, please utilize the following resources:

<http://lilyfields.digitalnovelists.com/>

http://rosesinkwell.wordpress.com

<http://www.twitter.com/sharontherose>

<http://www.twitter.com/LadyJrgella>

<http://www.twitter.com/proseofsharon>

Facebook: Sharon T. Rose

### Acknowledgements

No-one lives in a vacuum (even astronauts!), and I would be remiss to fail to mention those who have supported me along the way. So may have done so much, and I feel some chagrin that I can offer no greater thanks to them.

My family, for helping me become who I am.

My helpers, who offered their ideas to cover for my lack thereof:

Tara Dewberry

April C Raines

Clare K R Miller

Joyce M.

Cha Anng

Jessica Rosen

Jim Zoetewey

Gabriel Ho

Richard Laxson

David Abed-Rabboh

Chris Wraggs

Special thanks for financial assistance to:

Manfred Weber

Michael Kolb

Nancy Brauer

Fiona Gregory

Iron River Armoury

Emily Wilcken

Elizabeth Morris

Tara Dewberry

And of course to all my readers at LilyFields Entertainment!
