Ronan almost laughed. There was nowhere else to go, even if his loyalty did not pull him back to Aitu. But he had nothing to give them—only word of new drive technology that must be retrieved by an agent far more capable and ruthless than he. It was quite possible that his failure merited punishment with the execution his human kin spared him.
But he would not go willingly to the Kinsmen.
“Do not return, Ronan,” Miklos said, his voice breaking, “or we’ll be forced to kill you.”
Ronan struggled to his feet. “I will go,” he said. “But let another of your warriors take me from human space.”
“No, Ronan,” Cynara said, rising. “That decision is final.”
“There is a risk,” he said, forgetting Miklos and everything he had learned. “I will not let you take it.”
“What are you afraid of, Ronan?” she countered. “That you’ll become deranged and ravish my mind? You’ve been my responsibility from the beginning, and I intend to see this through.”
There was no yielding in her eyes. He knew it would not be possible to escape and leave her behind.
“Lord Miklos,” he said, “I ask that you convey my regrets to the Archon.”
But Miklos had already gone. Cynara stood with Ronan a little longer, and then she, too, left the detention area.
Without the Eightfold Way, Ronan could not have passed through the next few hours with his composure intact. He recited the chants over and over again until his mind could accept Miklos’s revelation, emotionless and serene.
They had known, of course, those Kinsmen who had trained and prepared him. They had relied on his kinship with the Archon to permit him access, and perhaps even to win his freedom should he fail. More likely they had expected him to die in the attempt.
At least there would have been some honor in death. He would have earned his place among shaauri, even in failure. What purpose could he serve now?
Guards brought him a meal, and then a second. Hours later they took him from the cell and escorted him through the corridors and to the edge of the palace grounds. It was night; the Acropolis was quiet, though the lights of traffic flashed in the city below.
Cynara was waiting for him. Together they entered a palace skimmer and rode to the spaceport, where Lord Miklos’s yacht was ready for departure. One of the Challinor pilots was on hand to instruct Cynara in the peculiarities of the ship’s helm; the guards took Ronan to the passenger lounge and installed him in one of the plush seats.
At last the guards and pilot disembarked. The ship hummed under Cynara’s hand and lifted, unchallenged, in that peculiar darkness that always comes just before dawn.
The yacht cleared the atmosphere and settled into its course. Cynara emerged from the cockpit, her hair loose about her shoulders. She sat down in one of the swivel chairs opposite him.
“Are you all right?” she asked.
“You should not have come, Cynara.”
“Haven’t you figured out that this—these things that have happened to us—are not entirely within our control?”
“It is a most disturbing philosophy.”
“Shaauri don’t control Selection, do they? It just happens. And lifemating—it strikes me as almost a kind of destiny.”
Her question took him unaware. “Humans believe such things?”
She dropped her head so that her red hair veiled her face, but her shoulders moved in silent laughter. “Never mind. What’s done is done. You’re on your way home.” Suddenly she looked up again. “Unless you’d rather go somewhere else.”
Miklos had asked that question on Persephone, and the answer was the same now as then. “I must return to my people on Aitu.”
“Did they know why you left?”
“The Arva’Kir—our leaders—and a few of the high-ranked va’laik’i knew, for they approved my original purpose to gather intelligence.”
“They gave you to the Kinsmen.”
“I wished to serve. But my status as an agent would not have been widely circulated. Ain’Kalevi was informed that I had finally gone on Walkabout.”
“From which you might not return. But you’re coming back empty-handed, Ronan. You’ll be punished.”
“I have allies. I will be given the chance to speak.”