They were still on Eden -- and yet they weren't. Her feet could feel the flagstone floor of her childhood home, and she could feel the eyes of both mother and father upon her, watching her; father calm and serene as always, mother wrapped tightly in her dignity to camouflage the fact that she was still opposed to the entire idea.

But another part of her was not on Eden. Her hand in Paulos', the strangest place she had ever seen floated before her. Carved into the side of a mountain was an enormous stone edifice. She recognized it from her studies as the chamber of the Imperial Senate and its accompanying buildings. The Imperial Palace was literally inside the mountain, and so invisible from her vantage point. Trickling down the mountain for almost as far as the eye could see, the city of Patria Regiae seemed to emerge from the very stones. Grav vehicles buzzed by in every direction. At the bottom of the mountain was a vale filled with buildings and landing bays with lights and even more vechiles and people moving hither and yon. A ship blasted its way out of a landing bay and rocketed skyward right in front of them, it's blinding blue-white tail fire trailing behind, its thunder rolling off the surrounding mountains in waves.

It was one thing to see images of this place in her mind, it was another to see it, to really see, to really be here -- at least, with the part of her that was, at this moment, really here, on Durakaan, looking at Patria Regiae.

"The ancient city of of emperors," Paulos said. "Many Duranaki still make pilgramages here. It is as close to a holy place as there ever will be in the Duranaki heart and soul."

Qamala's eyes were lit up like a young child's and she clung to Paulos' hand in much the same manner. What lay before them was somehow obscene to eyes that had only gazed upon Eden's pastoral serenity, and yet knowing that most of the rest of the sentient universe lived just like this made it exhilarating, too. And terrifying.

And impossible to resist. "Uncle... you... won't you stay with me? For just a little while?" She sent him the thought, not really wishing her parents to hear the trepidation in the words. "I mean... I remember my studies... and something of the maps... but this is..." Overwhelming.

"No dear," he said gently. They were moving again, high up the mountain, not too far from the Imperial Senate building. "This is your task. I will shoot the first arrow for you. After that you must shoot your own and decide for yourself what to do about them." Suddenly they weren't above the City, but within it, in an alley that ran behind her into the mountain and the subterranian part of the city, and in front of her to the outside, and the sunlight. "You are here to find Hercilia of the Line of Olicana. They own the ship you must be on." He turned them to face into the mountain. "This alley empties out into a broad avenue. Turn left and follow the avenue toward the Senate Buildings. You will see a cave open out to your right and more avenues will follow the ledges around. On the opposite wall you will see a large villa carved into the walls. There you will find the house of Hercilia."

Qamala nodded, swallowed heavily, squeezed his hand. She turned to look at her parents, at her home in Eden, though they were mere spectres now, without form. The decisions had been made, farewells already been spoken. The young Magellen would not now undo what she'd come to do... but the significance of what it all meant was just hitting her, and it made her heart very sad.

She shouldered her bag determinedly, then touched the holster on her belt where her bow, the gift from Paulos, hung securely. "Do we know why I must be on this ship?"

Paulos chuckled softly. "Because that's where the arrow landed. It carries a message important to the fate of billions, that is all we know. You will get used to the idea in time, Loulloudi. Hopefully sooner than your mother," he added with a wry drawl.

The young Magellen laughed at that, in spite of herself, glad her mother couldn't hear. They weren't all the way relocated yet, so she was careful to keep in contact with him as she stood next to him, moving into the curve of his arm for a last moment's comfort. "No more training strings," she agreed, referencing the harnesses with thin hide strips the Magellen used to train their young in the use of their ability to teleport. "All right, Paulos. I'm ready."

"Good luck." He kissed her on the forehead, but this time Qamala was ready for him. Even as the strange world of Durakaan solidified around her and the presence of her mother and father faded, she lifted her lips to his and kissed him back, kissed him like an adult, kissed him thank you and I'll miss you and farewell and some things neither of them were prepared to recognize. What she got back was that he believed in her; she would succeed and return to him fully seated in her now nascent abilities. The feel of his lips lingered on hers even after he too faded -- and then, suddenly, she was truly there. Completely. The only way back home now was under her own power -- or by the will of the Elders.

Two Myri in liveried togas approached, looking at her strangely. With a little shake, Qamala pulled up the hood of her robe, nodding to them politely as they passed. "Out to the avenue, then left," she muttered to herself, following the arrow Paulos had shot for her.

The alley way headed straight back into the mountain. She remembered from her lessons that the Duranaki had named this particular mountain the Monta Magnus, or `great mountain', for its origins as the capital of their civilization predated the history of most of the other peoples of even their stellar empire. Which was also why, as Paulos had reminded her, Patria Regiae, and even Monta Manus itself, was venerated by the Duranaki.

It took some time for her eyes to adjust to the low light. Light pots lined the walls of the avenue above doors to shops of all kinds as she turned to walk along it. The light was a cold blue-white that was dimmer even than a candle flame. And while this was supposed to be a Duranaki city, there were very few about. Most of the people she saw were Myri, not Duranaki -- or aliens she'd only seen images of from her studies. And, as she had learned, the clothing was garish, colors clashing, much skin exposed, and the make-up was extraordinarily over-done. One Myri male was almost completely naked. He was big and tall and poweful looking. But his body had been painted completely white and his lips bright red, his hair, which almost reached his waist, had been dyed a sickly color of green and he wore orange bangles and bracelets that jingled with every movement. And that Myri was hardly unique.

In some shop windows she saw art that was just as over-done. Everything, it seemed, had to be loud and large and evocative or it did not describe beauty to a Duranaki. Qamala tried hard to keep her attention focused on her mission, worked very hard not to wander off toward every overwhelmingly interesting thing she saw, but it was difficult. In the end, the only thing that saved her was a severe case of mental overwhelm: There was too much, and every bit of it was too much. It occurred to her that the low light levels and garish colors were all of a piece -- the Duranaki obviously must suffer from poor eyesight, as a race. Tugging the edges of her hood up again, she made her way around the immense cave to Villa Hercilia.

The house -- if that was the correct term -- had been painstakingly carved out of the mountain much as a sculptor might carve an image out of stone. It was, of course, above the main road that encircled the cave. Where the bottom of this cave seem to be, Qamala could not tell. It fell away, row after row of dim lights descending into the darkness. Grav vehicles rose up out of the lighted darkness and descended down into it, like weird overgrown bugs.

At the end of what on other worlds might be described as a drive, was a large staircase that led up to a veranda -- though what possible inclement weather might descend upon a cave Qamala could not fathom. At the far end of the veranda were two huge doors that reminded her of those in Paulos' villa. But the wood looked arcane for its strange pattern of grain, flowing like some sort of writing that played tricks on the eye.

She took a deep breath, then placed her slim hand upon the panel that would announce the presence of a visitor to those withindoors. It lit softly for a brief moment, then dimmed. Qamala knew that a Myri servant had been alerted and, if all was well, would answer the summons soon.

The door came open even as the thoughts and their doubts ran through her mind. A tall Myri male and a tiny Myri female stood in the doorway regarding her. "Aliens usually do not call here, young mistress," the male said. There was no hostility, but it seemed the slave had picked up some of the coolness, or perhaps the arrogance, of his master.

"And are usually not welcome," the female added. "Why are you here?"

"Welcome or no, I must speak with your mistress," Qamala replied calmly, "on a matter of some urgency."

"And what matter might that be, human?" The female pressed. She might have been all of one and a half meters in height, but she sounded impressively imperious.

Qamala gazed down at her, a soft smile curling the corners of her mouth. "I could tell you that, but I believe Hercilia would be bound to have you killed afterward," she said kindly. "I would much prefer that not to happen. Leave me standing here without if you must, but tarrying to let your mistress know that Qamala Sotiris of planet Eden is here to call upon her would be... most unfortunate." She didn't say unfortuntate to whom. She really didn't have to.

"We will inform her," the male said, looking down his nose at her -- and closed the door.

It took only two minutes for the huge door to open again. This time an officious looking pipsqueak of a Duranaki was flanked by the two Myri. He looked her up and down, apparently unimpressed. "You say you are a Magellen?" He sniffed. "You don't look like a Magellen to me. You look like a human girl, probably looking for a job, no doubt. We aren't hiring."

Qamala hadn't moved, and still did not. "Appearances can be deceiving," she agreed pleasantly, "Are you Hercilia? You certainly do not appear to be."

The Duranaki rolled his eyes impatiently. "Of course I am not Hercilia," he sighed impatiently. "You obviously know nothing. The Mistress of the Line of Olicana is not in the habit of fetching and stepping for every knocker at the door. Now be gone with you!"

As if his words had the power to command her, Qamala blinked out of existence right before their eyes, the air rushing in to fill the suddenly empty space with a soft pohnk!

"Nor am I in the habit of being insulted by mere servants," her voice said from behind him. She stood calmly in the garish entry foyer, eyes burning with a strange light. "Now, you can take me to your mistress so that I may disclose my mind to her, or I'll just, well, sort of pop from room to room, looking for her myself." She smiled slightly, most of the initial kindness gone from the expression. "If the Mistress of the Line of Olicana enjoys such surprises, you might even live through the experience."

She learned something just then. There are colors paler than white, and the Duranaki epidermis knows all of them. "F-forgive me," the officious pipsqueak prattled, quickly re-gathering the shreds of his dignity. "I am not overly familiar with your people. Drusius, Myria, see to our guest. I must inform our mistress of her guest."

Qamala kept her smile, nodded at the Duranaki as if he had her permission to do just that, privately grateful that her studies had paid off so soon. There are some who can only be moved by displays of power, Paulos spoke truly that day. She looked at the two Myri slaves calmly, but did not yet deign to push back her hood. "Is there someplace I might sit?"

"Please," the female Myria bowed, indicating a chair. "And may we refresh you?" The male, Drusius inquired. "Food? drink? Amusements?"

"Yes," Myria agreed. "We must see to your pleasure. It is our duty."

"Some... pomvinote, I think," Qamala allowed, searching for the Duranaki word for the wine and fruit juice drink of which Paulos had spoken, then seating herself in the proffered chair. "As for amusements -- do either of you happen to juggle?"

They both gave her a blank look. "I am afraid we do not, mistress," Drusius said dully.

"But may we find someone for you?" Myria said more brightly.

"There will be no time for that," an imperious sounding voice came from behind Qamala. Both Myri immediately bowed. "But bring her her pomvinote -- in fact, bring two." That sent the Myri scurrying off.

Hercilia was a tall, imposing looking female whose hair was every bit as white as her skin, and whose lips were painted as red as blood. `Pretty' was not an adjective easily applied, for she was so slender she looked like a corpse, and her countenance was so severe one might have thought a storm ready to break at any moment. "Well," she drawled. "You managed to impress my idiot secretary with your magic tricks. So now I suppose you had better impress me."

The young Magellen arose from her chair, pushing back her hood to reveal her own pale hair set over dusky-dark skin. Violet eyes took in the elderly Duranaki noblewoman with great interest, and what was more, complete, unconditional acceptance. It was likely the first time in Hercilia's life that anyone had gazed upon her with such eager liveliness, and also likely to be the last.

"I somehow doubt mere `magic tricks' would deceive you, Hercilia," Qamala said with a dazzling smile. "So it's a good thing I don't have any. I am Qamala Sotiris, of Eden. I am pleased to make your acquaintance at last."

Hercilia arched an eyebrow. "Curious," she murmured. "I have only seen that look in the eyes of one other, and it wasn't directed at me."

It came over Qamala in a rush, despite her best intentions, a rare fit of retrocognition. She saw in that moment what Hercilia had seen that day in the Emperor's throne room when the last Magellen had appeared on Durakaan. "Ichtaca," she murmured, recognizing him from the images Paulos had once displayed, his dark skin contrasting against his white hair even more than Qamala's own did. Almost unconsciously, she reformed what she saw and presented it to Hercilia in images made of light. "He is one of the eldest of us, his mission here of such importance that he dared entrust it to no other...."

Suddenly quite tired, Qamala collapsed back in her chair, the images of Ichtaca dismissing the Thavan with one tap of his staff fading before them. "I am not privy to his dealings, Hercilia, but I come here on my own. Will you hear me?"

There was a moment's silence during which Drusius and Myria served Qamala and their Mistress their drinks. With a wave of Hercilia's hand, they let themselves out, leaving the two alone once again. "And you come to see me directly, rather than the Emperor." It was half rhetorical, half question. "What have you to say, Qamala Sotiris?"

She took a cautious sip of the pomvinote, then a somewhat longer one as she found the taste palatable. It helped refresh her after the unexpected use of such power. "The emperor does not own the ship," Qamala murmured, placing the cup aside. "You do. I must be on it when it leaves Durakaan."

Hercilia's eyes went wide. "How do you know... " She barely breathed. "No one knows of that ship."

"The Magellen know." Qamala looked up at her hostess, channeling some of that same calm which Paulos had always evinced. "And the fact of it is, as you may imagine, quite safe with us. I have learned of it in order to facilitate my task. I must be on that ship," she reiterated, then added, "and what's more, I must know about the message it carries."

Again, Qamala got acquainted with shades of pale beyond white. "So much is known about a mission that is supposed to be secret," she murmured to no one in particular. The consequences, it seemed, were nearly more than Hercilia could bear.

"If we are to have a chance at rectifying what has gone awry, Hercilia, I must know," her mysterious guest said, pressing the point.

Hercilia looked at the walls around her as though they had ears. "Too much has already been said," she hissed. "Too much is already known."

"Indeed," Qamala smiled, flowing from her chair with a kind of majestic grace that she herself was not aware she possessed. Before another heartbeat had passed she was next to her hostess, so close they could share body heat. Her fingers touched the side of Hercilia's pale face lightly, but her violet eyes bored in relentlessly.

"But if you will allow me..."

"What?" Hercilia's eyes got wide again. "What are you going to do... to... me... "

"Just... relax, dear lady," the young Magellen smiled, the first strands of the mental link already forming. "I will do what I can to help. Simply... think... what it is that I must know... and I will know it too."

It took a minute for Hercilia to figure out how to comply. Qamala was familiar with the problem. The Duranaki was trying too hard. Qamala done the same thing the first time Paulos had asked her to open her mind to him. It seemed a natural reaction to being asked to open one's mind to another -- and it appeared that species differences really didn't make that much difference.

But finally, it was there. The instructions Hercilia had received; how she had followed them; and what was supposed to happen next. It was a rather amazing experience. Qamala was used to the highly organized, expansive, and disciplined minds of her own people. Hercilia's mind rambled all over the place, and was as open as a book with a broken spine -- even after she'd focused down enough for Qamala to find the information she needed.

Qamala took a deep breath and gently released the link, pulling her awareness back to within her own mind. She did not step away from Hercilia right away, instead remaining there, face to face with the old Duranaki noble, her remarkable violet gaze open, clear, innocently accepting of everything that she then knew of Hercilia, inside and out. It again was not a gaze that could come from any other being in the galaxy -- something Hercilia knew, but Qamala, in her inexperience, did not.

"Thank you," the younger being finally whispered, smiling gently. "You are one of the most fascinating sentients I have ever met."

"Charming," Hercilia snorted, using acerbity to cover embarrasment. She took a hasty sip of her pomvinote. "Now perhaps you'll tell me why you need to be on my ship. Will its mission fail if you're not or something equilly ridiculous?"

Qamala kept her smile, remembering Paulos' advice for dealing with these other races, especially the Duranaki. The fewer facts you give them, the more mystery you create, the better. She moved away to give Hercilia her "personal space" (the Duranaki seemed to need more of that than most other races), letting little motes of light dance about the hem of her long robe for effect. "If it was ridiculous, I would hardly be wasting my time on it, would I?"

Again, it brought Hericlia up short. " Drusius, Myria," she called. The two Myri came in promptly and bowed. "Send Captain Felix in." She waved them away and turned to sit down. Hercilia was as graceful in her own way as Qamala's mother -- though unlike Priyash age had withered the Duranaki female. "I assume there is a reason you've gone to all this trouble," she sighed.

Perching on her chair, drinking again from the cup of pomvinote (it really was a tasty beverage), the young Magellen nodded slowly. "But of course, the less said about that, the better," she said, not really mimicking Hercilia's earlier, melodramatic glancing about at the walls. But then, it wasn't really necessary. "Rest assured that I will be on that ship because I am meant to be there. Thank you for facilitating the easiest route, though."

Hercilia waved that away as though it was an annoying bug.

"You wished to see me?" A tall Duranaki came into the room. His head was completely shaved save for the mohawk that ran down the center, reaching his waist. It had been died dark green, which gave his face a sickly green hue. Otherwise we was in some kind of uniform that made his already austere features look just that much more striking.

"You're taking this young lady with you," Hercilia waved a long finger at Qamala.

"With me... To where?" Felix asked.

"How should I know," Hercilia snapped. "To where ever it is she thinks she's supposed to go."

Felix looked thoroughly perplexed. "To the space port? To the nursery? Where am I... "

"To the ship, Felix, you bone headed dunder head," Hercilia sighed. "She's going on your little voyage with you. Understand, or must I have Drusius and Myria explain it in even smaller words?"

Inwardly, Qamala groaned. Were all Duranaki really this repulsive? Amazing that they ever managed to conquer anything, especially considering that none of it was really by force...

"Captain Felix," she said, regaining her feet, now quite anxious to be gone. "You have command of a ship. It it is leaving Durakaan. I am to be on it. For now, that is really all there is to know. Shall we go?"

Felix bowed to Hercilia then indicated the door. "This way, lady."

Qamala nodded and pulled up her hood once more. The next arrow had been fired, and it was headed for Star Station Regilius. It was time to follow it.