612 PE

Sisterhood Chapter House, Planet Geseret

Giorgis created four different reports about her meeting with Connor MacLeod: the standard form for any Guardian outing, updates to the Watcher Chronicles, a description of her thoughts and emotional responses for the Seers, and an overview with exhaustively detailed appendices for the Centribune. Achsah reviewed (and repeatedly revised) the reports, and finally they were submitted.

Five days later, Achsah sent her a note: "Centribune Qamas approved your report. No meeting necessary."

Giorgis was relieved to hear that she wouldn't have to answer questions in person. The inner-view by the seeress had given her a migraine for two days. Giorgis went back to searching for leads on the fifty-three immortals who had been presumed dead but whose beheadings were unverified, plus handling the rare field reports that came in. The Teaching Guild assigned librarians to archive the vast collection of Chronicles of the confirmed dead. The days and the seasons slid by.

A year later, in Autumn, sisters began arriving for Conclave, and Giorgis received an invitation from the Centribune to a reception in the Sky Chamber. "Who else," Giorgis asked Achsah warily, "is being 'received'?"

"The Council of Nine."

Giorgis sighed. "My full report was sent to all nine tribunes."

"Yes, and Centribune Qamas thought it would be efficient for you to attend in case there are questions. Oh, and wear full regalia. After the reception, we'll go directly to the Grand Array."

Giorgis sighed again. But on the appointed day, she donned a formal black robe with the mid-length veil of her rank and the scarlet sash of her Guild then affixed the silver and black pin of a Watcher to her collar. At the appointed time, she and Achsah walked to the Center Hall then climbed the winding ramp to the Sky Chamber.

Giorgis had always liked this space. Unlike the Conclave Chamber, which was directly below them and two floors underground, the Sky Chamber was filled with light from the clerestory windows on the tall outside walls. Sunshine pierced through the lowered ceiling in the center of the room, letting dots of light trace their way across the clock markings engraved in the conference table. Nine translucent pillars supported the ceiling and, when rain came, funneled water from the roof to the cisterns below.

The floor was black and the walls were white, and the furniture was in shades of gray, so the main spots of color in the room came from tapestries on the walls and the sashes and waist-long veils of the Tribunes. The chant Giorgis had learned as a child came unbidden to her mind.

Green for the Gardeners, their hands touching earth.
Red for the Guardians, courage proves their worth.
Violet for the Healers, through death, life, and birth.

Gold for the Stewards, our treasure they accrue.
Orange for the Seekers, seeking knowledge new.
Blue for the Teachers, sharing what is true.

Gray for the Seers, with veil-piercing minds.
Black for guiding Sisters, and their ties that bind.
White for the Center, with colors all combined.

Centribune Qamas, her white veil floating about her, greeted them warmly then said, "Please, help yourself to the refreshments."

Giorgis opted for a cup of saki, a bowl of fruit, and a few rice balls. Achsah was already in conversation with the Seeker, so Giorgis joined her long-time friend Betyk, now Tribune of the Gardener Guild. They sat on a couch with its back against the outer wall and chatted of former classmates and their own current aches and pains, then went silent to listen to an energetic conversation nearby.

The Steward, still young enough to have blonde hair instead of white or gray, had joined Achsah and the Seeker and was waving both hands for emphasis. "We're simply recommending that each Guild take primary responsibility for its own funding."

"Not all of us are the revenue producers that Research and Development are," Achsah said, lifting her glass to the Seeker in tribute.

"But the Guardians could bring in more," the Steward said earnestly. "The fees for lethal specialized services are quite lucra—"

"No," Achsah interrupted flatly. "Our Guardians can be hired as bodyguards and security consultants, but our soldiers are not mercenaries, and our assassins do not kill for pay."

The Sisterhood, Giorgis knew, had its own reasons to kill.

"And of course," the Guide said, turning around in her chair to face the Steward, "we could not advertise those services. The public knows us for teaching, healing, caretaking."

"And useful inventions," the Seeker said.

"And growing food," Betyk added.

"And sex." That cheerful addition came from the Healer, who was sitting atop a tall stool near the refreshment counter and swinging her feet to and fro.

"Just so," agreed the Guide. "Our Propaganda Circle has spent centuries promoting the Sisterhood as nurturers. We do not want people associating us with war or assassination."

"On that, I'm sure we are all agreed," the Centribune said with calm finality, and that ended the conversation. The Steward looked sulky until the Centribune announced, "Budgets will be discussed at the conclave tomorrow. Tribune of the Stewards, would you join me here for tea?"

Betyk leaned close to Giorgis to murmur, "The new Steward is certainly innovative."

"The Sisterhood does need new ideas. And you and I were called innovative more than once."

"Oh, I know." Betyk swirled her wine around in its cup. "But it was easier when the new ideas were mine."

"Achsah should present her with a bill for all the security we Guardians provide to her guild. Although, then the Steward would bill us for financial services."

Betyk snorted in amusement but then said thoughtfully, "Each Guild might value the others more if it knew how much it depended on them."

Giorgis already knew no one would value the Watchers. Except for the librarians and the rare visit of an historian, the chronicles, full of information painstakingly gathered over the centuries, sat silent and untouched in orderly rows in the storage vaults, like tombstones in a military graveyard. All of those immortals were dead, and the living ones were exterminating each other. Giorgis hadn't nominated a successor; absolutely no one wanted her job.

The Healer and the Teacher came over and sat down on a nearby couch. "We have a question, Sister Giorgis," the Healer said. "The answer's probably in your report, but we haven't finished it yet—not that it's boring, it's quite well done—"

"Yes, nicely organized," said the Teacher. "Especially the appendices, though I'm only on the third."

"And I'm still on the second," the Healer. "But we didn't know about this reception until late last night, and since you're right here…"

"Yes, thank you," Giorgis acknowledged their compliment from a few sentences back. "Your question?"

"In the second appendix," the Healer began, "you wrote that Karla suggested the attack on Cloudrise was primarily to destroy the talismans, and that the quickenings were a bonus."

Again the Guide turned to listen, and Achsah and the Seeker stopped their conversation, too. Even the Centribune and the Steward, sitting at a small table with their cups and a pot of tea, were listening.

"I don't understand why Immortals would destroy their own talismans," the Healer finished.

Giorgis stood to address the Council. "Only a few Immortals had the training to utilize the talismans. And more importantly, we think that not all had the necessary inborn talent. So the Immortals who couldn't use them had reason to ensure that no one would."

"I thought all Immortals were psychic." The Steward sounded surprised.

The Seer turned her head slowly toward the Steward, but didn't look directly at her. Not that it mattered; her gray veil covered her face. Giorgis had always found that affectation both annoying and foolish. Why remind everyone else of what they couldn't see?

"All Immortals can sense the energy of another," the Seer explained, "It is a very specific and limited psychic ability. Though in some Immortals—such as Connor MacLeod, Karla, Methos, and Mother Cassandra—their immortal energy does appear to awaken latent capabilities or enhance existing ones."

Giorgis offered more information: "In addition to the transfer of energy at a beheading, the chronicles have reports of connections with animals, prophetic dreams, empathic links with each other, vocal control, and shared or transferred memories and abilities."

The Steward seemed uninterested in those details. "What level?" she asked the Seer.

"Mother Cassandra occasionally tested as high as five. Without her immortal energy, she was likely a level three." The Seer shrugged. "Immortals are sports, and those talents—for both mortal and immortal—are often erratic and inaccurate."

"How about when she was using the orb?" the Seeker asked. "Or any of the other talismans?"

Giorgis was about to say they did not know, when the Seer answered, "At the Sunearth school, she sometimes reached level eight."

That number brought forth a few murmurs of surprise, but Giorgis was surprised for a different reason. "I didn't realized she had been evaluated then." She tried to keep her tone mild. "That information is not in her chronicle."

"I can have a copy of the report sent to you."

"Yes. Please do." Her words had more of an edge than Giorgis had intended, and Achsah gave her a warning look. Giorgis took a steadying breath as she sat down then let her irritation flow out with her exhalation.

Meanwhile, the Seer was still talking. "We did not have the opportunity to formally evaluate the Immortals when they worked as a team with the talismans, but based on the distances reached and the efficiency of their work, their combined level was more than fifty."

That number brought utter silence. The Seer herself was only a nine, and the highest Giorgis had ever heard of was an eleven.

"I remember they even did a transfer through a warding," Centribune Qamas said. "The Immortals were working with the orb inside a warded room, and a student named Viyar absorbed a quickening-memory. Mother Cassandra helped to remove it."

"It is possible that Viyar, rather than the immortals, was the one to breach the warding," Giorgis pointed out. "She was an tel-empath with farsight, and she was an alpha ten."

The Healer rocked back on her seat. "That's rare. I suppose she joined the Seers?"

"Yes, she was in my guild," the Seer replied. "Unfortunately, she was killed in a spaceship accident some twenty years ago."

"Any descendants?" the Healer said, leaning forward now.

"Six children, twenty-seven grandchildren, and several great-grandchildren so far."

"Good. We don't want to lose that bloodline the way we lost the Immortal one."

"You had a breeding program for Immortals?" Giorgis demanded.

"Not a program, no. We were, however, hoping to collect data. Unfortunately, all our Immortal Sisters lost their heads before they had children, except for Mother Cassandra, who had three children by Connor during her time with us. But one couple's offspring isn't enough for analysis, and we never developed a thorough understanding of Immortal genetics." The Healer turned her hands palms up in resignation. "Now we never will."

"We didn't want to lose their technology either, but all the talismans were destroyed at Cloudrise," the Steward said. "At least we learned to manufacture truth stones; they bring in a good profit."

"We had also been trying to replicate the orb," the Seeker added. "A few centuries ago, we copied some crystals from it. An Immortal Sister got them to glow, but nothing else. For mortals, they just stayed dark."

Giorgis hadn't known that, either.

"As for the other three talismans," the Seeker continued, "we never saw the sword or the cup do anything, and the flute Cassandra made five hundred years ago sounded like any other musical instrument. Maybe she didn't build it correctly, or maybe it needed to be activated by an Immortal, just like the orb crystals. Maybe all the talismans did, except the truth stones. We have been using them to develop crystals that work for mortal psychics, and we've had some minor successes, though nothing like the orb."

Her fingers curled tightly around nothing. "It's just … frustrating. Those objects of power were created thousands of years ago, back in the Stone and Copper Ages, and yet even with all our technology we couldn't figure them out."

"Perhaps," the Seer offered, "that is because they were created not by technologists, but by psychics."

"Psychics?" the Seeker repeated dubiously. "Psychics react; they don't act."

The Seer waved aside that common saying. "It is true we have no telekinetics among us. We see the future or the past, foretell the weather, or hear animals or plants or people. We are perceivers, not doers." Her veiled face stared blindly at each of them in turn. "Not yet. We have been encouraging the talent for only five hundred years; humans have existed for more than five hundred thousand. Perhaps someone had the power six thousand years ago; perhaps we might have it again six thousand years from now."

"So let us look to the future, and not just the past," the Teacher quoted.

"Wise words, always. And so…" The Centribune turned to Giorgis. "Where is MacLeod?"

"In orbit above us on Space Station Telzee, using the name Kalev ni Dorni." Giorgis received updates about him every nine-day. "Last year, he enrolled in their school for space engineering. Once he has that certification, he'll be able to work on a ship and travel for free."

Betyk nodded. "So he can hunt. Which, as you noted in your report, is all that he has left."

"It's all he thinks he has," Giorgis corrected. "He doesn't know Immortals could have children. He doesn't know the Prize isn't real. That's why he hunts."

"But Methos knows Immortals have had children," the Steward said. "He knows the Prize isn't real. He still hunts."

Achsah shrugged. "Methos is a killer."

The Steward shrugged in turn. "So is MacLeod." She turned to Giorgis. "All surviving Immortals are. Aren't they?"

"Yes," Giorgis agreed. "Though some enjoy it more."

"Addicts," the Healer declared.

The Steward pushed back her golden veil. "How long until they're all dead?"

Giorgis stopped herself from tersely instructing the Steward to read appendix four, and it was a relief when Achsah answered with soothing tones: "How long until a bell is completely silent? The final battle could be a decade from now; it could be centuries."

"We could hasten it," the Steward noted.

"Watchers observe and record," Giorgis said immediately. "We never interfere."

The Steward looked amused. "I am not a Watcher."

Clearly.

"I'm not suggesting we kill them," the Steward clarified. "But we could help them find each other."

The Centribune turned to the Seer. "What does your Guild foresee?"

"Nothing certain; the life force of an Immortal is made diffuse by their quickening. Nor can we see their final ending."

"I do dislike unfinished business," the Centribune said, pouring herself more tea. "But the rule of non-interference also helps us stay hidden from them."

"Not all of them," the Steward pointed out. "Mother Cassandra was not discreet. Connor MacLeod knows about the Watchers within our Sisterhood. He even came to our door. Methos knows about us. And so did Amanda and Karla and Michelle Webster. How many did they tell?"

"None of the surviving immortals was on friendly terms with them," Giorgis said. "And neither Methos nor Connor MacLeod is one to share information."

"True," the Centribune agreed, but drew the word out slowly, as if she were watching it settle.

The Steward took that opening to suggest, "We will be safer if we silence both Methos and MacLeod."

"You mean kill," Achsah said.

"Yes." The Steward tilted her head. "I'm surprised that bothers you, Tribune of the Guardians."

"It does not, when necessary." Achsah ate one of the tiny cream puffs from her plate. "I simply prefer plain language."

"That does save time," the Centribune observed dryly, and at her tone, everyone adjusted their positions to look at her. "Plainly then: the Immortals are hunting themselves to extinction, only twenty-seven are left, though it may take centuries until they're all gone. At least two of them—MacLeod and Methos—know the Sisterhood has Watchers and their chronicles. In the past, Immortals have used the chronicles to hunt each other. Immortals have also suborned or tortured Watchers for information. I ask: is that risk still worth it to us?"

"Was it ever?" asked the Steward.

Giorgis had sometimes asked herself the same question, and now she answered it: "At the beginning, yes. Mother Cassandra— and our other Immortal sisters—needed help. Later, we wanted to study the talismans and immortality. So for the past six hundred years, we have helped Immortals hide. We cleaned up after them. We kept their secret. But now…"

Now came the end. She'd been in denial long enough. Giorgis permitted herself two seconds to taste the other emotional phases of dying—rage, desperation, grief—and then forced herself to accept reality. "Now we know there is no Prize. Immortals are neither avatars of deities nor themselves divine. The talismans are gone, the immortal women are dead, and there will never be another immortal child. If their secret is revealed, none of our own is at risk."

Giorgis stood to address the Council one last time: "Tribunes, I recommend that the chronicles and any incoming reports be transferred to the Archivists, and that the Watchers be disbanded and stood down. We will accept reports of sightings of Immortals, but we will not actively follow them." All her field Watchers could easily transition to Spycraft and stay within the Guardian Guild. The historians were already working with the Librarians. They'd be fine. "When that is complete, I will resign." No one disagreed, and Achsah was nodding in approval. Giorgis felt the phase of rage returning and quickly set it aside. She'd work through her emotions later.

The Centribune rose. "Sister Giorgis, we thank you for wise recommendation and your many years of service." She bowed, and all the Tribunes stood and did the same. "You have our gratitude."

Her rage flowed into pride and a warm sense of belonging, and Giorgis quickly blinked back unwanted tears as she bowed in return. "Thank you."

"How can we let Methos and MacLeod know?" asked the Steward. "So they don't come banging on our door a century from now?"

"Announce that the archives have a new special collection," Achsah said. "Those two always reconnoiter. They'll figure it out."

"And if a different Immortal wants access?"

"We do not play games with our own safety, and there is no reason to prolong their inevitable end." The Centribune picked up her cup of tea. "Take his head."