B00CH3ARG0 EBOK

by Christie Meierz

  Sorrow.

  “Ah. You are a perceptive one.”

  Smugness.

  He laughed and patted her again.

  Amusement. Curiosity.

  “No, I do not want to live any longer than I must.”

  Curiosity.

  “The only woman I ever truly loved died ... a long time ago.”

  Denial.

  “No. There will never be another like my Suralia.”

  Denial.

  An empathic image of Cena formed in his senses. The hevalrin was perceptive indeed to have lifted that from his heart. He clamped his jaw shut. No.

  Denial.

  “I cannot give a broken heart to Cena. She deserves more.”

  Denial.

  “I know my own heart!” he exclaimed.

  Silence.

  He took a deep breath to calm himself and noticed the hevalrin had stopped swimming. The breath went out of him in a gust. How could she presume to know him better than he knew himself? His ability to give his whole heart had died with the Sural’s grandmother.

  Sympathy. Caring.

  “Ah,” he said, gazing out to sea, then down at the hevalrin. “You have known loss.”

  Agreement. Sympathy. Loss. Renewed hope. Joy.

  “You have found joy after a great loss?”

  Agreement.

  “Is that why you are doing this? Why me, why now?”

  She gave a sort of empathic shrug. Need.

  “I needed you?”

  Agreement.

  He chuckled and shook his head. “And you want to convince me to live.”

  Agreement.

  “For Cena.”

  Agreement.

  Did she have a point? His last thoughts when he believed he would die were not of his lost Suralia, but of Cena. Was he that entwined?

  Was he?

  Agreement.

  He leaned his forehead against the ridge to which he clung and sent his senses roaming. He touched new life.

  “You are increasing!”

  Joy.

  “And you want me to have this joy.” A sudden welling of affection for the great creature made him smile. “Your heart is kind, hevalrin.”

  Love.

  He stroked the rough skin of her ridges and whispered, “Can I know again what I had with my lost Suralia?”

  She started moving again, surging through the water with powerful strokes of all six flippers. He leaned against the ridge to which he clung and closed his eyes.

  Approval rumbled through the hevalrin.

  * * *

  The atmosphere in the refectory was colored with an anguish not even the joy of a new birth could lighten. Kyza and Thela ate their evening meal in a rush and fled from the somber adults. Laura took the chair beside Marianne and cuddled Rose, who fussed at the grief around her.

  Marianne put her elbows on the high table and dropped her head in her hands. “It’s my fault,” she whispered.

  The Sural put a hand on Marianne’s shoulder. “Storaas was responsible for his own actions.” He shoved a piece of fruit in front of her. “You need to eat, beloved.”

  She nodded, but made no move to touch the food. “If I hadn’t forced the issue, if I hadn’t made him decide he had to go off and think—”

  “You cannot know this.”

  “—he might not have been in that cave when the earthquake hit.”

  “It’s not your fault,” Laura said.

  The Sural nodded agreement. “I have told him many times over the years that the caves are dangerous, but he was drawn by their beauty.”

  Marianne looked up. “Are you sure he was there?”

  “We found his tablet and the residue of the dead pod. We have yet to locate his body.” His lips compressed as grief lanced through him. “He cannot have survived. It was too deep, the water too cold. The science teams calculated where he could have drifted. We found nothing.”

  “What about,” Marianne paused and gulped, “animals. Carrion eaters.”

  “Numerous in the oceans, but small. There was not enough time to consume a body.”

  “Cold water drowning—”

  “It was half the morning before we knew he was missing. Too long.”

  Her eyes filled. “There’s really no chance?”

  He shook his head.

  “Have you told Cena?”

  His eyes swept the refectory. “Not yet.”

  She dropped her head back into her hands. “I’ll do it.”

  The hand on her shoulder tightened. “We will tell her together.”

  * * *

  Cena was distant and preoccupied as she allowed the Sural and Marianne into her study and motioned them to sit. Marianne opened her mouth to speak, but Cena interrupted her.

  “No,” she said in a flat voice. “He is not dead. I would know it.”

  The Sural gusted an exhale. “Are you certain?” he asked, his voice gentle. “Do you allow hope to affect your senses?”

  “I am certain.” Cena swallowed. “Perhaps ... he has been captured.”

  “No,” said the Sural. “He would walk into the dark.”

  Marianne cleared her throat. “What if he were unconscious?”

  “He ... could be,” Cena allowed. “The connection is tenuous. I cannot be certain.”

  “We have not ceased searching,” the Sural said, “but the seas are deep off our coast. There are no islands within a reasonable distance.”

  “Define reasonable,” Marianne asked.

  He gave her a grim look. “Even I could not swim so far.”

  “Oh.”

  Rose, left in the next room with her nurse, began wailing.

  “I must return to my duties,” Cena said. She stood and fixed her gaze on Marianne. “This emotional turmoil is disturbing Rose. Celebrate your daughter’s birth, high one. Do not mourn a death which has not occurred.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Storaas staggered up the sandy beach. The island to which the hevalrin brought him was larger than he had hoped, which boded well for finding water. The sun was now below the horizon, and it would be dark soon. He untied his robe from around his waist, shrugged into it, and continued up the beach.

  Hunger and thirst drove him. He’d had nothing to eat or drink since dawn – if it was even the same day. His time sense had been unreliable since the summer, when his heart had nearly failed him. He couldn’t be certain how long he had been unconscious after the shock of nearly drowning in Suralia’s frigid seas.

  The island was covered with trees and vegetation, some of which were certain to provide edible fruits or greens. Even if he failed to find anything to eat, he could fast a few days before weakening, but without water he wouldn’t live long enough to be found. The moonless night ahead would not make the search easy.

  He turned a slow circle, looking for landmarks, trying to get his bearings before venturing into the trees. Tiny creatures called, chirped, and hummed in the dim forest. When he tripped over a root he failed to see in the dimness, he thought better of exploring the forest at night and returned to the beach.

  Perhaps a stream ran to the ocean? He turned to pace along the line between the trees and the sandy beach, scanning the ground for fallen fruit, intent on walking the island until he either found water or returned to where he’d begun.

  The stars were bright overhead when he heard it: a bubbling sound, faint but audible under the noise of the crashing waves. A tiny stream, as wide as a man’s stance, flowed onto the beach. He threw himself on his knees and rinsed his hands in it. When his hands were clean, he brought a scoop of water to his mouth and took a tiny sip.

  Fresh!

  It was like nectar on his parched tongue. He took a few greedy gulps before he could force himself to slow down and drink at a measured pace. When his thirst was satisfied, he splashed the ocean salt off his face and peered into the forest along the stream.

  He shook his head. It was too dark in there.

  Heaving a sigh, he sat again
st a tree that overarched the stream. At least he had water. He was sure to find food in the morning, and it was warm enough to sleep in the open despite the season. The hevalrin had done well to bring him here.

  A tickle at the edge of his senses indicated she was still nearby.

  “My gratitude, hevalrin,” he murmured.

  Concern.

  “Have no concern. There is water here.”

  Puzzlement.

  He chuckled and propped his head against a large root at the base of the tree. Within moments, he was asleep.

  * * *

  Storaas woke at dawn with a grunt. Something was picking at his peds. He glanced down and wondered when he’d lost his slippers. He’d not even noticed the loss, but now a sand crawler was scraping the skin on his heels and then picking away and eating any flakes of skin it managed to dislodge. He kicked at it. The creature scurried away.

  His stomach grumbled as he scrambled over to the stream to drink and splash water on his face. Ignoring his hunger, he followed the stream into the forest, hoping to find food and the source of the water.

  He’d walked only a short distance when he came upon a tree hung with fruit in various stages of ripeness from inedible to full maturity. He set into the ripe fruit with a will, eating until he was satisfied and sucking the juice from his fingers. He rinsed the stickiness from his face and hands and resumed his trek upstream, passing several more fruit trees of various kinds and spying some edible weeds in the underbrush. He would not lack for food.

  By midmorning, the air under the forest canopy was hot, humid, and still. He trudged on, keeping a slow but steady pace, sweating in the heat. Flutters called and chattered, and insects buzzed and hummed. He smiled at the beauty of it all. If only Cena could be there to share it with him.

  He stopped. Was that a faint roaring? He couldn’t be certain. A little farther on, it became more audible, until the head of the stream opened into a large, shallow pool beneath a small waterfall. Orange sunlight poured through the hole in the canopy. An urge to be clean came over him, and he stripped to rinse his robe and trousers, laying them over bushes to dry. Then he waded over to the waterfall.

  The water was cold enough to make him gasp, but he stepped under it to rinse the ocean salt from his hair and body. He pulled his hair around to examine it and frowned at the tangles, wondering if there were some way to fashion a brush. He shook his head. It was going to be a time-consuming task, dealing with his hair. He set about washing it as well as he could. Later, when it dried, he would see to untangling it. His fingers would serve as a comb, if he could find nothing else.

  Clean and refreshed, he left his clothing draped over its bush and sat naked at the edge of the pool, warming himself in the sun and thinking.

  He could live out his remaining days in this place.

  Granted, he had yet to find shelter. While autumn here seemed warm enough, he wasn’t sure where the hevalrin had taken him, nor did he know if temperatures would remain mild enough for him to survive the long winter. Driftwood and deadfall might not be enough to keep a fire going as long as needed, and shelter was a priority. Perhaps these rocky hills contained caves. Or perhaps he could dig one.

  He snorted. With what? He looked at his gnarled old hands. Better suited to a stylus, those hands, even if he had a spade. But the fact remained that he had to come up with shelter that would withstand the winter, because the heat made one thing obvious: he was much too far from Suralia to hope for rescue. When the remains of the transport pod were discovered, if they had not been already, the Sural would think him dead and send search teams to look for his body. They would search as far as they thought his body could possibly have drifted, but they would not search this far. A pang went through him.

  He was on his own.

  Therefore, he needed to come up with shelter. He should also start gathering wood for the winter, and he needed to make a fire. One side of his mouth twitched upward. That might be an enjoyable exercise.

  Then his mood shifted with the realization that food and food storage would be a problem if the winter became very cold. How far south was he? He picked himself up and donned his robe and trousers. No matter what lay ahead, he needed to explore the island.

  * * *

  The Sural stood on the Overwatch, arms crossed in front of his chest, staring across the city at the sea beyond.

  Where are you, old friend? Are you alive?

  Storaas had been missing three days, and the guard had completed their search of Suralian waters without finding any trace of him. If the Sural did not know for a certainty that there were no human ships within light-years of Tolar, he would suspect the old man had been phased off the planet.

  A disturbance in the bay caught his eye: a hevalrin breaching.

  He looked again. It was the wrong time of year for hevalra to be in Suralia. Strange, but the huge sea creatures could be unpredictable. Doubtless the marine biologists in the city were investigating it. He shrugged and went back into the keep. It was time to contact Suralia’s neighbors and talk them into joining the search.

  * * *

  Storaas strolled along the beach, gathering driftwood. Not much had come ashore along this section of the island. That was in some ways fortuitous, since it was a long walk back to where he was storing it, in a pile beside the crude hut he had fashioned at the edge of the trees near the stream.

  He was in no hurry. He shifted the small load under one arm and bent to pick up a small stone, then pitched it into the surf. After a moment, his senses tingled.

  “There you are, my friend,” he said.

  Happiness.

  He smiled. “I am also happy to communicate with you. Are you well?”

  Longing. An image of a bold male appeared in his senses.

  “You miss your mate?”

  Agreement.

  “Yes, I know this feeling.”

  Curiosity.

  “I miss Cena. I miss my people.”

  She bellowed sadness at him, then whispered longing.

  “You think my longing for Cena is not as strong as my sadness for my Suralia.”

  Agreement.

  “I cannot control that.”

  Denial.

  “Truly, I cannot.”

  Denial.

  A sigh escaped him, but then a wry grin crept onto his face. He was arguing about matters of the heart ... with a sea creature.

  * * *

  Marianne was feeding Rose when the Sural entered her quarters late in the evening of the fifth day since Storaas’ disappearance. She made room for him on the divan.

  “Everyone is talking about the hevalrin in the bay,” she said.

  “It is most unusual.” He slid onto the divan beside her. “An adult male. Normally they are in the southern oceans during this season, so that the females may give birth in warmer waters.” He cupped Rose’s tiny head with one hand and dropped a soft kiss in her mop of black hair.

  “What’s he doing here, then? Does anyone have an idea?”

  “Perhaps he has lost his mate. He breaches repeatedly and calls. When a biologist approaches he calms and allows contact, but he has so far been unable to communicate.”

  “Can’t you communicate with him?”

  He shook his head. “I have not attempted it. I can bespeak their matriarch, but that does not guarantee I can communicate with this individual.”

  “And their matriarch would be in the southern oceans right now?”

  “Very likely.”

  “No help there, then.” She leaned her head on his shoulder, thoughts of Storaas damping her mood.

  “Do not do that,” he said. “Think happier thoughts. Newborns are intolerant of uncomfortable emotions for the first few tens of days.”

  “Little tyrant.”

  He chuckled. “How is Laura adjusting?”

  She snorted at him. “As if you didn’t know. She’s getting used to being an empath, but it’s hard for her to be around more than a few people at a time.”
>
  “Her sensitivity is remarkable.”

  “What does the Paran think?”

  He shook his head. “How he makes use of his lover is not an appropriate topic of conversation between us, but he would be a fool not to value her highly.”

  “You mean he should make use of her sensitivity? Or that he would be an idiot not to bond with her?”

  “That is not for me to say,” he said, but he smiled. “I will say that I do not take him for a fool.”

  * * *

  The Sural stretched his long legs under the desk in his open study and brought up the next report on his tablet. Seven days without Storaas. He felt lost without his oldest advisor. It was like trying to breathe without one of his lungs.

  As he read the report, a man in a scientist’s brown robes entered the room and stopped before the desk, waiting. “Speak,” he ordered, still reading.

  “You honor me, high one,” the man said. “I am a marine biologist working with the hevalrin in the bay.”

  The Sural looked up. “You bring news?”

  “I believe I know what the hevalrin wants.”

  He put the tablet aside and gave the man his full attention. “Tell me.”

  “He wants to communicate with you.”

  The Sural’s brows shot up. “With me?”

  “Yes, high one. You, and no other.”

  “I see. Is there anything else?”

  “No, high one.”

  “You may go.”

  The scientist disappeared out the door. The Sural pocketed his tablet and pushed himself out of his chair, heading for the transit room. His head guard met him there to join him in the transport pod.

  The drop to the tunnels almost brought a smile to his face. Almost. It was always exhilarating, but even that couldn’t break through his somber mood. Vidar gave him a sidelong glance and said nothing, lips twitching from the effort to conceal his own enjoyment.

  The hevalrin lay stationary in the waters of the bay, waiting for him. The Sural brought the pod up against the creature’s colossal head and pushed his hand through the living crystal onto its rough hide. He closed his eyes.

  A rumble went through the gigantic creature, the sound so low-pitched he felt rather than heard it. A perfect emotional image took shape in his senses. His eyes flew open.