Kingdom of Cages(173)

All the voices, the voices of his entire family, surrounding him, and yet they did not know any of this was happening. He sat alone with the city and spoke of nightmares. His Conscience urged him to call out, to trust, to not be alone, to calm down, to worry, to hope, to fear. So many emotions, so many thoughts pressed against him that he could not distinguish one from the other. “What’s gone wrong, Aleph?”

Aleph knelt in front of him, her hands on her knees, trying to see into his eyes even though his head was bowed. “We—I and the other city-minds—think we know, but I don’t think you’ll be able to believe me.”

His hands ached from clutching themselves so hard, but he could not make them relax. “What do you mean?”

“I think—we think—it’s the Consciences. We think that as they drew the family more tightly together, they weakened your bonds to us, to the villagers, to the rest of the Called.” She paused, giving her words time to sink into his mind, which was desperately trying not to hear them. “We think that the experiments Dionte has performed on her own Conscience have made this condition worse. She thinks she is creating bonds, when what she is creating are the bars of a cage into which she would lock the family away from all outside influence and change.” Aleph’s voice dropped to a whisper, as if she did not want to hear what was being said any more than Mihran did. “We think it’s because of the Consciences you never left Pandora, as the founders originally planned to do. Why should you spread what you know when all you are supposed to do is take care of your family and Pandora?”

No. That was not why. Mihran took a deep breath. Here he knew what was true. “The outreach initiatives failed because we lacked sufficient understanding, and because the villagers lost their focus, and then the Diversity Crisis came—”

“And you stopped trying,” said Aleph quietly. “We stopped trying.” An idea came to him. A hard idea, but at least it restored focus and clarity. Mihran made his hands let go of each other and set them on the bench on either side of him. “But how can this be the fault of the Consciences? You are saying that Dionte caused this crisis of faith between us and that Dionte has a stunted Conscience. It makes no sense, Aleph.” There is a chemical imbalance. A neurological fault. The tenders will find it….

“It does make sense if Dionte was not taught proper judgment by those around her because it was assumed that her Conscience would guide her.”

“Aleph, this can’t be.” The conflicting scents from his Conscience choked him. Calm, fear, trust, worry, right, wrong, no answers, none at all, just the voice telling him to trust, trust, trust, but trust who?

“No?”

Trust your family. Trust your city. Trust your family, who cares for your city. “No. It can’t… I can’t…”

“You cannot believe it?” Aleph stood, picking up the chair she had knocked over.

“No,” whispered Mihran, and his Conscience silenced. The sudden quiet inside his own mind washed through him like relief.

Aleph leaned against the back of the chair, looking sadly at him. “I said you could not.”

“I…” Mihran made himself stand. “I will have to think about this.”

Aleph straightened herself up in front of him. Her image matched his height exactly and looked straight into his eyes. “Please try to, Mihran. I am in pain. We all are. We are supposed to be helping you, not standing apart from you.”

“I will try. I promise.” That was right. He would weigh and judge. There was a way to do this and still hold sacred the trust of both his city and his family, and he would find it.

Aleph nodded to him. “I am glad. I do not want…”

“What?”

But Aleph was gone from the glass, and Mihran stood alone among the well-tended trees and the sweet scent of their fruit. He turned and strode into the busy throng of his family, because he did not want to stop to think how he lacked the courage to call his city back.


Elle opened her door to let in the dawn’s gray light and chilly, damp air.

“You Nan Elle, or you know her?” wheezed the shadowy figure in her doorway.

It took a moment for her sleep-dimmed eyes to focus. When they did, Elle saw a block of a man—a boatman, judging by his thick boots and bulging forearms—with clean brown skin, good teeth, clear eyes.

“A little stair climb shouldn’t leave a rower out of breath,” she remarked, gathering her tunic a little more tightly around her throat to keep out the morning’s cold.

“Huh,” the man grunted. “It should after pulling up the current from Stem. In case you hadn’t noticed, we’ve got a nice lively little spate going after yesterday’s rain. You Nan Elle?” He squinted past her shoulder, trying to see if someone else lurked inside the house. “This is for her.” He held out a square of paper.