“It is of Ziem.”
“As all planium is, yes.” He looked toward her, clearly questioning.
“It is of Ziem and therefore I can draw it to me. It will flow, as mist on the breeze,” she elaborated.
She saw him blink. Nearly smiled. He said nothing, but she could almost feel him quashing down his natural reaction to a claim that to him must seem utterly preposterous.
When she spoke again, she did so briskly. “I will trust you to advise me about the pain. This is no place for stoicism, Major, I must know of the slightest change of location. And I will speak to you regularly. You must respond, with an answer that shows you understood the words and can form an answer. Is that clear?”
“Quite.”
Something about his tone this time made her add, “And have I your word?”
“You would trust it?”
She held his gaze for a moment, a moment that was surprisingly difficult, before she said, “My son says you will keep it. My trust lies with him.”
“He is worthy of it.” With any other, she might think the words flattery. Not this man. He meant it. And once more she thought of how he had spoken of the Coalition he served. Not we but they. “I understand I am the prisoner here,” he said. “But I would ask one thing of you.”
“Healing you is not enough?” she asked, keeping her tone purposely light.
“Are you saying there is no chance anything could go . . . wrong?”
“There is always that chance, in delicate procedures like this,” she admitted.
“Then if it does, I ask that you let me die.”
“I see.” She was not surprised; she already had seen on that hillside that a life so impaired would be unbearable for this man. Even as she thought it, he confirmed it.
“I have not the courage to live as I am now. I must have your promise it will end, even if you must aid that end.”
“You want my promise to kill you if I cannot heal you?”
“Not you, if you cannot. I am sure there is someone here who would take pleasure in the death of a Coalition officer. And something more,” he added rather abruptly.
“You are used to giving orders, aren’t you? What else?”
“If . . . it comes to that, I would suggest you make it look as an accident. A fall, perhaps.”
“You think that would be believed? A man with your strength and agility?”
“They will think the shard did what they said it would do.”
“But it will be gone.”
“I doubt they will bother to check.”
“Won’t bother? One of their most decorated officers—”
“—is still dispensable.”
She shook her head slowly as she looked at him. “And you wonder why we fight?”
“No.” She lifted a brow at him. “I only wonder at how well you fight.”
“Flattery?”
“I do not flatter.”
She set aside the thoughts that wanted to rise up and consume her mind. There was no room for speculation now. She could feel the active bleeding had stopped, so it was time now to begin edging the metal shard back, away from the new damage it had caused.
And it would not do to wonder what would happen if she failed. What would happen if the leader of the Coalition on Ziem died under her hands. But she could not stop herself from wondering how it had come to pass that the best thing she could do for this home she loved was to save the leader of their conquerors.
HE HAD ENDURED pain before. A great deal. But this was different than anything he had ever experienced. It was made doubly difficult by the need to respond to—he truly must think of what to call her—when she spoke to him. Sensibly.
Oddly, he found what helped most was remembering the way she had laughed. It had been a sound unlike anything he’d heard. Or rather, the reaction it caused in him was unlike anything he’d ever felt. He’d lived an expansive life, seen many worlds, done many things, led a conquering force around the galaxy, and yet never had he felt the odd sort of sensations that laugh had caused. Something about the light, silvery quality of it, the genuine mirth, had brushed over him like the feathers of one of those bedamned birds they had so many of on this foggy world.
“What is it you’re doing, exactly?”
“First I must establish a barrier around the shard, so it will not slip. Then heal the blood vessels and tissue it damaged, so you will not hemorrhage when it is removed. Once it is gone, then the work of healing the nerves will begin. And that, I promise you, Major, will likely be the most unpleasant experience of your life.”
“I will endeavor to focus on the goal.”
“I sense you are strong-minded enough to do just that.”
He wasn’t certain, with her, if that was a compliment or not.
“Tell me, Major, are the children of your world truly taken from their parents as infants?”
The abrupt question startled him, momentarily shoving the pain to the background. Which, he supposed, was the intent, for surely she was not truly interested in such things.
“Yes.”
“Cold. And they agree to this?”
He frowned. “Of course. It is expected.”
“How did yours feel about it?”
“I do not know. I never knew them.”
He heard her breath catch, felt an odd sort of snap, as if whatever it was, this flow she had set up between them, had wavered for a moment. Then it resumed. And only then did he realize he could . . . not feel her touch, but sense a sort of pressure on his back, near where the scar marked the metal’s entry.
“Who looks after the children?”
He tried to focus. “Attendants.”
“Were they kind?”
His frown deepened. As a distraction, her unexpected questions were working. He had spent little time with anyone who did not already know all this, did not accept it as a matter of course. “That is not their job. They are only to keep the children healthy. Strong.”
“Did they not become . . . attached?”
“It was not permitted. And they were rotated regularly, to prevent just such violations.”
“Violations.” It was said so under her breath he almost didn’t hear it, wondered if he’d been intended to. But she had to know he could, the way his head was turned to the side where she knelt. With an effort and the bit of control he had left above the shoulders, he could see her. She said nothing more, and it was a diversion from the pain, so unaccustomed as he was to it, he kept talking.
“They also begin the initial sorting. Pulling out those who are abnormal, physically or mentally.”
He quoted it by rote; everyone knew what the process was, and no one thought about it much.
“They watch for—” a sharper pain jabbed through, and he had to make a greater effort to continue “—certain signs, signals of what a child might have an aptitude for, so they can be tested in that area.”
“And if they show no specific aptitude at that young age?”
“If they are otherwise normal, they are held in a separate group.” He shifted his gaze to her face, and was surprised at the tension he saw there; her voice had sounded normal again. “They are not unaware that some talents are latent, and do not manifest in early childhood.”
“So rational. Tell me, Major. Do the children understand what they are missing?”
“They miss nothing. They have food, get exercise, mental stimulation.”
“And where do they go in your glorious Coalition to get the love all children need?”
“That is strictly a . . . cultural concept. The Coalition has found it unnecessary.”
She moved slightly. He saw it, not felt it. No, wait, he did feel . . . something. A shift in that strange flow he could sense. “So your
children are treated as less than animals, who at least have parents to nurture them until they can survive on their own.”
“They have what they need.”
“And you, Major? As a child, did you never yearn for something more, even if you sadly did not know what it was?”
“No.” He said it with an edge he put down to the jabbing increase in pain he suddenly felt.
“Did it move, or just get worse?”
So she had sensed it. “Worse. Same place.”
“Odd,” she murmured. She moved again.
He suddenly could not breathe. Nor could he speak to tell her.
“Hold on,” she said urgently. She moved her hands, not far, perhaps an inch. Nothing changed. His vision began to oddly narrow around the edges.
“Grim! Your blade!”
The tall man moved quickly. Handed her something. Was she going to put him out of his misery? It did not matter, except he would regret the end of this time with her.
And in this moment, with it all slipping away from him, he didn’t even think it strange that that was his last thought.
Chapter 20
IOLANA MOVED quickly, using Grim’s razor sharp blade to slice through the jacket and shirt Paledan wore. She shoved aside the layers of cloth; she needed direct contact now. Another time she might have admired the sleek skin over solid muscle, but now she focused only on the knotted scar that marked the entryway of the invasive shard. She put her hands over it, pressing down, sending an intense burst, closing her eyes to give it her full effort.
And suddenly she felt him breathe again. He gasped reflexively, sucking in several deep gulps.
“I am sorry, Major,” she said as she sat back, shaken. “The shard is larger— longer, to be specific—than I thought. But I have it now. Are you all right?”
“I . . .” He stopped, took a couple more breaths, as if he were making certain he could. “Yes,” he finally said.
“Take a moment, then we will resume.”
“The treatment, or the conversation?”
He was remarkably calm for someone who had just nearly died under her hands. Had he come so close to death so many times he was inured? He had asked for it, out on that hillside. But that had been when faced with the end of his life, as he knew it anyway.
It struck her then to wonder, for the first time, what Drake would have done had she not been there to offer an alternative. Before the question even formed, she knew the answer; her son would have granted Paledan’s request before he would leave him there to die helplessly after possibly days of suffering. Which was, she thought, more than the Coalition would do in turn.
“Both. I find the conversation . . . interesting. Disheartening, yes, but interesting.” She hesitated, then thought she would have no better time to ask. He could use another moment to rest, and she was curious. “Tell me, Major, are there any children of your own in that unfeeling nursery?”
She had surprised him. But he answered, rather sharply. “No.”
A nerve? “I’m surprised the Coalition hasn’t come up with a way to produce the necessary soldiers in a laboratory.”
“They’re working on it.”
She gave a slow shake of her head. “Your masters do not read much history, do they?”
“They write it, not read it.”
“And so they have not learned what others have from their mistakes, and must repeat them.”
“Mistakes? In some quarters simply implying the Coalition is capable of mistakes would end with your head on a pike.”
“I am fortunate, then, not to be in such a quarter.”
“Some would say you are. The Coalition has declared Ziem conquered.”
“And you, Major? What do you declare?”
Something glinted in those impossibly green eyes. “That they have pronounced that victory too soon.”
She laughed, delighted with the answer. He stared at her, and their gazes locked. Something shifted in her, making her feel oddly off balance. He was, she thought, a very different sort of man.
She moved back into position. “I think we will resume now. Both healing and conversation,” she added, thinking that she liked his dry humor. More than she ever would have expected.
She let her hands hover over the scar once more, although it took her a moment she found embarrassing to finally focus below the surface, so drawn was she by the skin over taut muscle around the mark. She searched her mind for something to distract her.
“Is it true that Barcon Odom is dead?”
“It is.” After a moment he asked, “Does that bother you?”
“Only that in now I will never understand why he betrayed us.”
“Betrayed? Some would say he merely accepted the inevitable. Many have welcomed the Coalition, have understood the benefits.” He sounded as if he genuinely wanted to understand.
“The benefit of being taken care of, as long as you march in step? The benefit of never having to think for yourself, in exchange for doing exactly what they say? Of never having the freedom to choose your own course, but having it chosen for you?”
“It suits many,” he said, and she had the feeling he was keeping his tone purposefully neutral.
“I’m sure it does. For there are those who would never question. I have known both kinds of people, those who would look at such a life with gratitude, and those who would regard it with horror.”
“And you are of the latter.”
“As is most of Ziem.” She grimaced, from her thoughts as much as the effort she was expending. “Except for the likes of Barkhound.”
She felt an odd sensation in the moment before he smiled. “Is that what you called him?”
“My youngest children coined that particular name for him.”
He went silent. Then, quietly, he said, “The twins.”
She went still, although she maintained the flow. She had the feel, the rhythm of it now, and this strong, fit body was responding quickly, more quickly than she’d expected.
“Yes,” she finally said.
“They are . . .”
He seemed at a loss for words, and she laughed. “Yes, they are.”
There it was again, that jolt of shock, because she was enjoying this conversation he had joked about. She had to remind herself that he was not simply a Coalition officer, but the commander of the conquering forces on Ziem.
. . . they have pronounced that victory too soon.
“REST FOR A WHILE,” she said.
“In the enemy camp?” Paledan said. “Not likely.”
“But are we not in your office?” she said lightly.
“No, we are not,” he said, convinced of that at least. “But I will grant you it is a very accurate representation.”
Except for the storeroom in the corner which held—
He cut off his own thoughts. Realized, impossible as it seemed, it was because he was half-afraid she truly could read his mind.
“Then what convinced you it is not?”
She again sounded genuinely curious. “The impossibility,” he said.
“And what of the healing we are doing here? Did you not think that impossible?”
“Yes. But I now have first-hand evidence it is not.”
“So you are open to . . . changing your mind.”
“When not doing so becomes the impossible, yes.”
“Utterly logical, yet flexible. A rare combination, Major.”
He was feeling neither at the moment, so did not comment. But he did seize the chance to say, “What should I call you?”
She looked at him for a moment, and he thought he saw the corners of her mouth twitch slightly before she said, “Calling me the Spirit does not appeal?”
She was teasing him, he realized. N
ot in a taunting, malicious way, but genuinely, with humor. And, he realized in succession, she was trusting him to understand that.
“I cannot say that it does,” he admitted, not quite sure what this realization meant, for him or for her.
She smiled. “Then Iolana will do. What we do here is a bit too . . . personal for formality, I think.”
“And ‘Major’ is not formal?”
She lifted a brow at him. Something about the way it arched made him aware again that she was indeed the beautiful woman from the portrait.
“Contention valid,” she said, smiling in that same way. “What would you prefer?”
He felt the strongest urge to tell her to use his first name. No one did, not even Brakely, who was as close to a friend as he had. He had never thought about it overmuch, because it had never been an issue. But now, with this woman . . .
It filled him again, that strange, unaccustomed tangle of feeling.
I gave you a tiny bit of true feeling, normal emotion. . . .
Was that what this was? Did people who had not been properly trained truly feel this . . . all the time? How could they stand it? It was exhausting.
“Call me what you wish,” he said, wearily. “I can hardly stop you.”
“But you could,” she said quietly, “for I am of Ziem, and we respect the wishes of others.”
“I thought to Ziemites, each being had sovereignty.”
She laughed, but it was different this time, more amused at him than pleased. He didn’t like the change. “You speak as if those ideas are in conflict, when in fact the one creates the other.”
He had not thought of it in quite that way.
She stood up. Easily, he noticed, although she had been kneeling beside him for a very long time.
“Now you truly should rest for a while, for the next stage will be worse . . . Caze.”
And then she was gone, leaving him stunned at the impact of the simple fact that she had, indeed, used his given name.
Chapter 21
DRAKE AND BRANDER looked up as she approached them in the cavern, beside the water pool.
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