This room already contains the bare edges of that flavor.
She feels desperately sad.
Balidor leaves her light alone briefly, fighting to relax.
If he allows himself to get as upset as her, the session won’t go far.
He focuses on a Christmas tree in the corner near a long window. Next to it, the pretty, dark-haired woman from the photos hums while she decorates a fir tree’s branches.
The tree is already half-filled with lights and tinsel and sparkling ornaments. Some of those ornaments are exquisitely made––delicate baubles that glow with an inner light, small fairy castles and reindeer made of porcelain and crystal angels.
Others are crude, painted by a child’s hands, with broken edges and smiley-face mouths and colors and patterns that clash and run over the edges.
When someone speaks up from above him on the couch, Balidor jumps.
Then he turns, looking up.
Cass sits there.
She is maybe eight years old.
Sometimes he is her in these dreams, so unable to see her at all.
Sometimes he is not her. Sometimes he is a silent witness, observing from some other point in the room.
This will clearly be the latter.
He cannot always see a pattern there, in terms of when he is her and when he isn’t.
This time however, the reasons for the distance are as obvious as her face, which has a black eye from an adult’s balled fist. Balidor feels that pain in his chest worsen as he looks at the heavy bruise on that small, delicate-featured face.
“Mrs. Taylor?” she says, clearing her throat.
Her voice is tentative, but it is not a child’s shyness, not exactly.
Already, he hears the faint flavor of that sharper, less child-like edge.
Already, she is more adult than she should be.
“Can I help?” she says, her voice holding an even fainter longing.
That longing seems to cut into Balidor’s chest.
“…When Allie gets here,” she amends. “Can I help, too?”
The woman turns, smiling at her.
The woman is pretty, maybe thirty-five years old. Maybe as much as forty. Maybe even forty-five. Balidor still struggles with human ages, despite how long he’s lived among their race. If she were seer she would be close to his age now, somewhere north of four hundred years old. Her dark, softly curly hair hangs past her shoulders. She wears a flowing dress that is dark green, a dress that hugs her narrow waist and curve of hip.
A Christmas dress.
“You can help me now, sweetie,” she says, beckoning her over.
Cass hesitates again.
Then, taking a deep, serious breath, she slides off the edge of the sofa.
Landing on her feet, that fake nonchalance already wafting off her light, she walks to where the woman stands. Something about the caution he feels there, the fear, makes Balidor’s chest hurt all over again.
He sees something similar in the woman’s eyes as Cass approaches her.
Pity, yes, but more than that, too.
The woman loves her, sees her almost as a third child. She is looking at the bruise on Cass’s face. She is staring at it, hoping the child doesn’t know she is staring, biting her tongue so hard she tastes blood in her effort not to ask about it.
Balidor sees a fierce anger there––an emotion he can recognize in himself.
It is one more reason for him to like Allie’s adoptive mother, Mia Taylor.
It is not this human woman who hurt her.
But Balidor already knew that.
He’s already seen enough of Cass’s childhood to know whose fist is likely imprinted on her face, as well as how slight the transgression would have been for Cass to earn it.
She starts off a shy child, a sweet child, an obedient child.
Ironically or not, it is that fist that turns her into something else. It is the voice attached to that fist––a voice that constantly accuses her of being not-sweet, not-obedient, not-modest, not quiet––that turns her into the opposite of those things.
Like happens so often, so heartbreakingly often, she becomes what he accuses her of being. He wills her into his image of him, and like the obedient girl she was before he got his hands on her, some part of her complies.
Yet he does not break her entirely.
Even her father doesn’t break her, not on his own.
Even now, Balidor sees the flame that fills her chest.
It flickers at him shyly, shadowed behind whatever hides her true light from the world. Cassandra’s heart is soft cream light and violet mixed with shockingly white, still light––light he can scarcely look away from now that he knows how to look for it.
Of all things in her, her heart is the most breathtakingly complex.
It is the most obviously not-human.
It is the part of her he looks at, and cannot comprehend how anyone would not know that she was something extraordinary––that she is not only and very obviously seer, but that she is something far rarer than that.
Her heart is unrecognizable in this place.
It is nothing like what Balidor sees when he looks at her aleimi now, in the current time period, in that distant Barrier tank, where Cassandra wears the chains of the Dreng––that black, obsidian, root-like structure Shadow burnt and hardened around this beautiful, delicate thing he sees living inside her chest as a child.
Here, Cass’s heart is still open.
It burns brightly in her chest, like a delicate flower, cautious but heartbreakingly soft.
Mia Taylor loves it.
Carl Taylor loves it.
Jon loves it.
Allie loves it.
Balidor has seen the child Allie hug her friend Cassie crushingly against her chest, exuding nothing but adoration for that light in Cassie’s chest.
“Pick whichever ones you like,” Mia Taylor says, motioning towards the messy box on the low glass coffee table and smiling again.
Balidor watches Cass’s face.
He notes the serious look in her coffee-colored eyes as she scans different ornaments in the box. Tissue paper keeps them marginally apart, but unlike her adoptive daughter, Alyson, Mia Taylor is not a precise woman. Mia is more a free-spirit, and her organizational and housekeeping skills reflect those traits.
“I like having too many,” Mia confides, smiling at Cass as she blows a stray curl out of her face. Mia turns to the tree, hanging up a glass dolphin on a higher branch. “I like to be able to choose my favorites… different favorites, you know? Different every year. If I have too many, I don’t have to put up everything. It’s why I buy new ones all the time, too. It gives us more choices, no matter how big the tree…”
Unlike many children might have, Cass doesn’t dismiss Mia’s words.
Balidor sees the little girl with the bruised face thinking about them, stopping her perusal of the ornaments to frown at the tree as she did.
Looking back at the box, she stares until Balidor sees the exact moment her eyes light up.
Once they do, Cass leans forward, pulling out a jagged design fashioned in metal, something that shines coppery in the afternoon sunlight slanting through the windows.
“I like this one,” she announces.
Mia glances down with a smile.
Examining it, she nods in approval.
“One of my favorites,” she says.
“What is it?” Cass says, looking up.
“I don’t know.” Mia laughs. “Allie’s father found it in Asia.” She blows that pesky strand of hair out of her face once again. “It’s seer, I think. Or maybe Tibetan? I don’t know.”
Cass holds it in both hands now, carefully, like an ancient artifact.
“I like it.”
Mia nods, her eyes shrewd as she looks at Cass’s downturned head. Smiling when Cass looks up, Mia says more gently,
“Hang it on the tree, sweetie.”
She caresses the little girl’s dark,
curtain-straight black hair.
She does it carefully, Balidor notices, conscious of the bruises on her face, aware there may be more where she can’t see them.
Balidor watches Cass as she hangs the metal shape, a copper-plated version of the old sword and sun symbol of the seers, on the highest branch she can reach.
That pain in his chest sharpens––
Four
Late To The Party
“Where were you, brother?”
He snapped out of where his thoughts had gone.
They had returned to that last session he realized.
On some level, they had returned to Cass.
Flushing, he faced the female seer in front of him now.
He can tell from her face that she knows he was gone for those few seconds.
From her face, she might even know where his mind and aleimi went.
Yarli, that same female seer standing in front of him, scowled at him. As she did, her nose wrinkled, even as she folded slim, leanly-muscular arms across the front of her chest.
“Nevermind,” she said, disgust in her voice. “I know where you were. I know where you would likely still be now, if you could be. And I would rather if you didn’t give me some story that recounted every other place you went on this night, but omits the one that has your light half out of your body.”
Staring at him, that disgust on the surface now, she added,
“Your light is looking for hers, even now. You’d rather be light-fucking that evil bitch, even now. That is why you are so quiet… isn’t it, honorable Adhipan Balidor?”
Balidor stiffened at that, in spite of himself.
It wasn’t the open sarcasm in her voice.
It wasn’t even her last few words, which were colder than most.
Dropping the armored vest he’d just removed over a chair by the door, he turned, facing her, still wearing the holster and gun he wore while on duty, at least outside of the tank itself.
“I’ve never lied to you, Yarli,” he said, his voice hard. “Not once.”
“You lie to yourself, brother. That is worse.”
“Or perhaps you simply write your own stories about where I am,” he returned shortly. “And what it means. Perhaps your stories are borne of more delusion than mine.”
She stared at him, her dark eyes growing colder, more distant still.
“You would say that to me?” she said quietly. “Even now? When I just caught you with her in your light and mind… and right in front of me?”
“You know I am working with her. You know this must preoccupy me at times––”
“Gaos!” Her anger flared out, making him flinch. “You are so full of shit, brother! How can you stand to taste these words in your mouth? Truly, Balidor, I cannot decide if you are the idiot, or if you have simply decided I am one.”
For a long-feeling few seconds, neither of them spoke.
Balidor felt like he’d walked through the door and into a boxing ring.
Some part of his mind and light circled hers warily, even now, treating her more like an opponent than the person with whom he’d been sharing his bed for several years.
Moreover, her words were cutting deeper than usual tonight.
He knew his light was open from the session with Cass, but that was not all of it.
Yarli was trying to hurt him tonight.
That was relatively new to them, too.
Still, he could feel her hurt driving that desire to hit out at him.
He could practically see the hurt and anger seething around her light.
Guilt hit him, once that much sank in. He knew she no longer trusted him. She no longer felt their relationship was safe, or that he was being open with her, and he understood full well the reasons why. He just had no idea how to fix it.
Maybe to calm himself down––or to allow her time to calm down––or to buy himself thinking time––or some combination of these things––he found himself looking around the small ship-board quarters they shared.
The military green and gray walls had been warmed by cloth wall-hangings, most of them supplied by Yarli, most of them depicting various beings in the seer pantheon, although she also had a few Native American hangings from when she’d lived in the United States.
Similarly, rugs covered the floor, most of those hers, as well.
From the state of the room, she had been waiting for him.
He smelled herbal tea, saw a tablet open to a book on the bed, which was still made, although the top quilt, which was handmade by her, was rumpled.
The way their collection of smaller pillows had been piled against the curved bulkhead suggested she’d been sitting up in bed, reading, likely for some time.
She’d been waiting for him.
Taking all of this in, Balidor exhaled, returning his eyes to her face.
He stared at her for a beat longer.
Then, thinking back on what he said, he held up a hand, gesturing a sign of peace. Even as he did it, he fought to control his light, knowing it was late, that he was tired, that she was likely tired, as well––particularly if she’d been up all this time while he’d been gone, speculating as to where he was and what he was doing, growing increasingly angry at his absence.
Both of them needed sleep before they had this discussion.
Unfortunately, what he felt on Yarli’s light told him this probably wouldn’t be easy to put off to a later time or date.
She clearly wanted to have this confrontation with him now.
She’d stayed up most of the night for that very reason.
“I am sorry,” he said, his voice subdued. “You already know I was with Cass. You know that is the reason for my preoccupation. We made little progress… as usual. I am feeling frustrated.”
Yarli’s facial expression and posture didn’t change.
Well, they did not dramatically change.
Balidor did see some small portion of the tension in her lips soften.
The charge in her light dimmed just enough that he knew she had heard him, that she was at least attempting to acknowledge his offering of peace. Still, he could feel from her light that she wasn’t satisfied with his words.
Moreover, they didn’t lessen the true source of her anger.
“What if I really told them?” she said, her voice cold. “What would you do, Balidor? Would you end things with me, cut me out of your life, if I told the others about you and your precious Cassandra?”
At his silence, she refolded her arms, clenching her jaw.
“And what would you do, brother… after I’d told them?” she said, her voice ice. “Would you listen to any of them, I wonder? Wreg? Jon? Tarsi? The Sword? Alyson the Bridge? Or would you simply dodge and weave and lie to them, like you do with me?”
Balidor once more fought with his light.
He knew he should not answer this.
He knew he should not, but he could not help himself.
“Are you threatening me, sister?” he said after that too-long pause.
Her arms folded tighter to her chest, squeezing against her ribs.
“I just wonder if that is the only way to stop this madness,” Yarli said, pressing her lips together. She jutted her jaw towards him. “Would that finally cause you to stop, to consider any point of view apart from the one you’ve adopted?”
She stood there, clearly not expecting an answer.
Balidor was tempted to give her one, anyway.
She went on before he could.
“I sincerely wonder this, brother,” she said, her words still calm, if now openly filled with contempt. “Clearly, nothing I say carries any weight. You’ve made it abundantly clear that my feelings are immaterial in this. You are not open to reason for your own sake––”
He clicked at her, losing his temper in spite of himself.
“Yarli––”
“Are you fucking her, brother?” Yarli said, her voice cold. Pausing, she gauged his eyes, her jaw still thrust toward hi
m. “Or should I say… are you fucking her yet? Have you managed to talk yourself into crossing that line yet, brother?”
That threw Balidor.
He blanched, staring at her.
“What? Di'lanlente a' guete. You can’t be serious––”
“I’m perfectly serious,” Yarli cut in. “And you know I have every cause to ask such a thing. If you weren’t so busy playing both sides of your own mind––”
“It is preposterous. Moreover, it is insulting––”
“Are you fucking her or not? Are you going to answer?” Her dark eyes flashed with anger. “I can already hear the rationalizations, brother. I can hear you telling yourself it is for the cause, for the charter of the Adhipan… that it is the only means you could think of that would force her to engage with your light.”
At his silent stare, she snorted openly.
“Look at you.” She motioned up and down his body derisively. “Look how offended you pretend. As if the thought had not crossed your mind already. It is only a matter of time now, I figure. The rationalization is already there, living in your light. You are only looking for an excuse to act on it… assuming you are not acting on it already.”
Balidor continued to stare at her.
Then, abruptly, watching her stare back at him, he felt something in him switch over.
Maybe it had been there for a while.
Maybe he had known it would come to this, what he had intimated with Cass. Maybe he had been holding on for longer than he’d been willing to admit to himself, for reasons that weren’t wholly clear to him, even now.
Maybe he’d done it to protect himself from the very thing Yarli was accusing him of.
In any case, he felt himself let this go.
He felt the part of him that was done.
He felt the part of him that was really done.
He felt the part of him that was tired of this.
“I am tired of it too, brother,” she said, her voice harder. “Very tired.”
Balidor clicked at her, even as he tightened the shields around his light.
“You are destroying us,” he accused. “You are doing this.”
A Glint of Light Page 4