Triangle

by Sara L Daigle

  “It’s up to you,” Alarin replied, his tone still faintly hostile. “It doesn’t matter to me.”

  Doesn’t it? Merran thought to himself, extremely aware that Alarin was still not accepting the casual mental touch Merran offered. There was more to this invitation, he thought. More to the call than he knew. What could be wrong with Tamara? “Are you going to tell me what happened to Tamara?”

  “Come down and visit her yourself,” Alarin replied and hung up the phone.

  Merran stared at the phone in his hand. There was something not right about the whole thing. On the surface, it appeared that Alarin was extending an olive branch, but the way he ended the conversation—what had happened to Tamara?

  Merran raced through the necessary preparations to leave, telling his skiing buddies that a family emergency was sending him home. It wasn’t until he sat in the car, speeding home as fast as he dared, that it occurred to him to wonder why, with a new Healer available, Tamara had ended up in the hospital at all. The Healer, a bright young man named Rory Memaxthal, could have healed anything physically wrong with her, although it was possible that an illness had laid her low. Even then, Azellians with access to a Healer rarely had to go to a hospital. Maybe it was psychological? Had she done something to herself? His mind raced through possibilities, matching his breakneck speed down the hill to the downtown area. He chafed at the slower speeds in the metro area, and arrived at Denver Mercy a little under two hours later, much faster than one normally could have gotten off the mountain and across town.

  As he exited his car, he noticed that the air was much warmer than in the mountains, with a light smell that promised spring. He normally loved the humid, soft, green scent of spring, something Azelle, with its harsh desert environment lacked, and it curled around him, reminding him to take a deep breath despite the anxiety that rode him. After several deep breaths of the gentle air, he was able to soothe down some of the frantic energy that filled him. He walked into the hospital, the scent of antiseptic stinging his nose, the pain and fear of the patients in the building slamming into his shields and ramping him back up again. The benefit of the breaths he’d taken outside was drowned in the flood of anxiety rising through him as he stalked up to the admitting desk.

  “Tamara Carrington’s room. Please,” he said, adding the last as an afterthought.

  “Are you a relative, sir?” the woman asked, glancing up from her computer screen to acknowledge him. “She will not see anyone but those on the accepted list.”

  That took him by surprise. Such a restriction was something normally reserved for celebrities or people who were being hounded by the press. Was she being hounded by the press? And if so, why? “Merran Corina,” he snapped. “Am I on the accepted list?”

  Her eyes widened, but otherwise there was no sign of weakening on her part. “Let me check, sir.”

  Merran stood impatiently as she checked the list of accepted visitors, tapping his fingers on the counter. He didn’t bother to modulate the force of his irritation. Most humans couldn’t stand up to him in a mood like this, and he didn’t use it often, but it sometimes helped to get what he wanted. That she’d resisted him thus far was pretty impressive for a human.

  “I’m sorry, sir. May I see your ID?” she asked, her tone firm.

  “Am I on the list?”

  “Merran Corina is, sir, but I must establish your identity.”

  “My—” Merran stopped, belatedly remembering the labors he’d taken to shift his appearance, dying his hair blond and letting it grow into an unkempt thatch, along with a dyed blond circle beard that now framed his mouth and chin. He suddenly realized he hadn’t bothered to shift it back before he flew down the mountain. “Fine,” he said, pulling out and handing to her the license that established his true identity.

  She studied the picture, then peered at his face. After a moment, she nodded. “Room 453, Sir.” She handed the card back to him.

  Merran took the license, shoved it in his pocket, and turned to get on the elevator. After getting off the elevator at the fourth floor, it took him a moment to find the heavily shielded room that was Tamara’s. He stopped at the door and hesitated a moment, smoothing down his hair—suddenly feeling unusually nervous. The door was closed and he knocked quietly.

  The young man who pulled open the door was not known to him personally, but he recognized the new Healer from his mental array even before he introduced himself. “Merran Corina, I presume,” he said, then an expression of amusement crossed his face. “Rory Mennak Memaxthal. Alarin told me he had called you. I didn’t expect you to arrive this quickly. What did you do, fly down the mountain?”

  Merran stood impatiently in the doorway, ignoring the young Healer’s amusement. “Yes, yes. How is she?”

  “Fine. This is mostly precautionary.”

  “What’s wrong with her?”

  “That’s for her to tell you.” He stepped back.

  “Why all the cloak and dagger? Can’t someone tell me what’s wrong with her?” Merran demanded, frustrated that no one was answering his questions. Rory shrugged and waved him into the room.

  Merran entered, turning the corner to see Tamara sitting up in the hospital bed with tubes running from her arm to a bag that fed her intravenously. She looked pale but normal, except for … Merran stared at her, his eyes going wide. It wasn’t possible! Tiny unformed thoughts brushed across his mental screens, seeking, probing, and trying to learn the boundaries of her mother’s life. He was hardly aware that Rory had stepped out and closed the door behind him—only that distant part of him that monitored everything around him registered they were alone. How is this possible? Tamara is … pregnant?

  Tamara met his gaze and burst into hysterical giggles that ended in throat-tearing sobs. Merran’s heart, which he thought he’d managed to heal during his time in the mountains, leaped into his throat, aching from the stark terror and unfocused anger that poured through the shielded room. Her normal shields were in rags, and the force of her projection was enough to rock him back on his feet. No wonder they had her shielded. He stepped closer as he put out a hand. Pulling from an old acolyte training ritual he’d learned during his years at the Temple, he spoke in a low voice, using an Azellian dialect he was certain she didn’t know, repeating over and over, “Strength comes from the knowing of ourselves.” He murmured the words, as he came close enough to stroke his hand through her aura. “You are complete and whole. You are strong enough to do this, my beloved. You are strong and loved.” The word beloved slipped out, and he was suddenly glad she didn’t know the dialect and that no other Azellian was in the room. It was part of the ritual, but it made him feel distinctly odd to call her that, given what had passed between them these past few months. It might be sort of true—she certainly was closer to a beloved than anyone else, but he didn’t need to complicate things by using a word like that with her.

  The spikes of emotion smoothed a little and her sobs subsided to hiccoughs. “Wh-what are you doing?” she asked, staring up at him as her breathing slowed under his ministrations. “What language are you using?” The dialect distracted her, as he intended it should, even as she let his projection soothe her. She was far from calm, but she was coherent at least.

  He sat on the chair that had been placed by the head of the hospital bed. “It’s a meditation ritual I learned years ago,” he replied, letting his hand drift down to rest on hers. “It’s not quite as effective as if you did it yourself, but it helps. The language is an old version of Azellian. The Keepers at the Temple use it for benedictions and teaching. No one speaks it anymore. Rather like Latin for humans.” He used the touch to calm himself too, to paste a veneer of calm over his own shielding. Inside he felt anything but calm, but he hadn’t been ambassador for six years for nothing. He knew very well how to control his own projection without regard for his own true emotions. “It helps make things seem less … overwhelming.”

  Tamara’s hand shook slightly as she pulled it from his to brus
h a lock of hair out of her face. She sounded oddly calm as she said, “Don’t lie to me. I’m an empath myself, and I’ve spent some time behind your shields. I know you’re not nearly as calm as you’re acting.”

  Merran leaned back, pulling his hand away. He shrugged, but didn’t entirely dispose of the guru-like calm he’d pasted over his mind. “Will running around the room shrieking like a banshee get me anywhere?”

  Tamara choked. “It might make me feel better,” she muttered. She eyed him. “You look good. Even sort of relaxed. Although the hair color is a little distracting. Where have you been?”

  Merran spread his hands. “In the mountains.”

  Tamara lifted her eyebrows. “The mountains? We all thought you were offworld. What were you doing in the mountains?”

  “Skiing,” Merran said, his mind not entirely on the conversation, thinking instead about the impossibility of her condition. “Never mind about me. What … how … how did you end up here … like this …” he trailed off, unable to finish the sentence.

  “I don’t know,” she snapped, her voice thickening. “I thought Azellian women didn’t get pregnant by mistake. I thought that you Azellians had control and didn’t get women pregnant by mistake. Because God knows this is a mistake. An awful, terrible mistake.” Tears slid down her cheeks. “God, I hate this! I just hate it! My emotions are a train wreck. One moment I’m calm, the next I’m sobbing like my heart is breaking.” She slammed her palm on the bed beside her. “I just hate this!”

  “It’s a very natural reaction to a rather severe shock,” Merran soothed, not sounding entirely like himself—but then he didn’t feel like himself either. Had he … no, it wasn’t possible. It had been ages since he’d had intercourse with Tamara—just about three? four? months ago. How far along was she anyway? Was he the one responsible? Sometimes he got so distracted … but she knew how to keep from getting pregnant too. Surely she would have taken care of it, even if he’d not done a thorough enough job …

  “Oh really? How do you know what I’m feeling?” Tamara demanded, glaring at him, her nostrils flaring, her eyes snapping blue fire at him through the tears. “How in the hell do you know what I’m going through? It’s not exactly your body, is it?”

  He twitched at the strength of her reaction. She couldn’t have read him through his shields, could she? “I can sense it,” he answered, finally, opting for what he thought might be the least irritating.

  His effort was wasted. “Oh, and how many pregnant women have you experienced to make you such an expert?” she asked snidely.

  Merran took a breath. He wasn’t the only man she’d slept with, he reminded himself. Why did he have the impression she thought the baby was his? It could be Alarin’s just as easily. “Rory’s told you the same thing, hasn’t he?” he asked, trying to keep his veneer of calm. It wasn’t easy, especially not with her railing at him. It would have been much easier if a tiny part of him hadn’t been terrified that she was right, that it was his fault.

  “Don’t try to distract me. Just answer the damned question.”

  “Question?”

  “Don’t play games, Merran. How many women have you gotten pregnant before?” The question was blunt and wasn’t exactly what he’d said or thought they were talking about.

  Merran choked and coughed. She did think it was his fault. “Uh, none, as you know very well,” he said, clearing his throat and sitting up straighter, trying to control the flush that crawled up his cheeks while holding on to his shielding and his temper at the same time.

  Tamara made a strangled sound. “I don’t know,” she replied, barely audible through her tears. “That’s the point. What do I know? Nothing. I don’t know you. I don’t know anything about you, and suddenly I’m carrying your daughter.” She threw her arms in the air, almost dislodging the intravenous feed. “This … this parasite that is making me so sick I can’t even eat anything, that is tying me here and will change everything in my life. I’m not ready for this, Merran. Why? Why? I’m not old enough to have a baby!” A sob exploded out of her at the end of her rant, and she buried her head in her hands, hiding her face.

  Merran lost control of his flush. He could feel the heat crawl up his cheeks, but managed to control everything else, from his shielding to his temper. Considering the force of the unshielded emotions rocketing around the room, he had to give himself a momentary acknowledgment for holding onto his shields. “Are you telling me you know for sure it’s mine?” he asked, trying to sound less panicked than he suddenly felt.

  Tamara lowered her hands, taking a deep breath. Her nostrils flared. “Rory tried to guess based on her mental array, but she’s not being particularly cooperative,” she admitted sullenly, staring at her hands.

  Merran braced himself. “Then we don’t know for sure?” Relief poured through him at the thought. Tamara made a disgusted sound, and he knew she was picking up more than he meant to show her. “I don’t think it’s possible that it’s mine. Why do you think it’s mine?”

  Tamara gave him a look. “Why isn’t she?” she asked acidly. “Are you trying to deny that we had a sexual relationship? Funny, I seem to remember some very sexual moments between us. As in, it’s damned possible she’s yours.” Sarcasm poured off her in waves.

  “Uh, you and I haven’t had intercourse in nearly four months,” Merran pointed out sharply. “If not more.” It had been more. It had to have been. It couldn’t have been him.

  “Actually it was less than that,” Tamara said, clenching her fists on the blanket covering her legs. “Believe me, I counted out days as soon as I found out. It’s possible. I’m thirteen weeks along.”

  Merran took a breath through his nose, losing the battle to stay calm as he fought down the surge of panic by telling himself she was wrong. She had to be. He refused to think about it. “All right, fine. In the end it doesn’t matter anyway. You’re pregnant and that’s that.”

  “What are you going to do?” Tamara asked, her voice getting thicker, as if tears were building at the back of her throat. He could sense the fear that backed all this anger, and he shared it. What, by the grace of the aarya, was he going to do it if was his child? A daughter? I have a daughter? No. The words echoed through his mind, shocking him. He didn’t question that Tamara knew the sex of the child she carried—any Healer would have told her that immediately. But a worm of doubt that this baby could be his crawled through him.

  He stared past her head at the windows. The sun poured in and mocked the momentous change that had just come into his life. His mind raced through the problems, consequences, and possibilities, his ambassador training kicking in to help. “Whatever I have to.”

  “Which is?” Oddly enough, her voice was neutral. Considering how her emotions had been careening around the room a moment ago, it was almost as odd as if she’d screamed at him. Actually more so. He’d expected the screaming.

  “I’ll support whatever you decide regarding the baby. You’ll have whatever money you need, of course. I’d help you through, no matter what. The embassy has an excellent daycare system. You can finish college at least.” His voice didn’t sound like his own. Welcome to Earth, I’m Merran Corina, Azellian ambassador. My daughter is in the daycare unit downstairs. His hands trembled, and he pressed them together to keep her from seeing it. He couldn’t come unglued. Not now.

  Tamara’s nostrils flared. “Money?” Her voice rose at the end of the word. “Money? You’re not going to let it change your life, are you?” She was pretty much screaming at him by the end of the question. “You’re not even going to let it dent that so calm exterior of yours!”

  “Tamara, be reasonable,” he said, trying for calm and not defensiveness. “We don’t know for sure if she’s mine in the first place and in the second—”

  Tamara made a sound, interrupting him. “Oh, so you think she’s not yours? I’m thirteen weeks along, Merran. Have you really forgotten that afternoon about three months ago? In your office? Between meetings?”
>
  He scowled, his own emotions in enough turmoil that he couldn’t hide them anymore. He got to his feet and paced, raking his hands through his hair. A terrible, horrible feeling that she was right spread through him, and with it came the resentment and anger he could feel so clearly in her. He’d been so distracted that day; the whole thing had hardly counted as being together. If she hadn’t taken care of her end, it could very well have been the day that was about to change their lives. Actually it made sense. It was the last time they’d had any intercourse at all. And, no matter how quick it had been, it could very well have led to this.

  “Do you remember?” Tamara pressed. “It’s even likely,” she reminded him, “you weren’t with it at all. Remember? You were so involved in that treaty you didn’t even say goodbye when I left. Do you remember?”

  “Yessss,” Merran hissed, his temper igniting. He stopped at the foot of the bed. “I remember.” He took a deep breath. She didn’t need him yelling at her, as much as he’d like to explode out his own frustrations back at her. It was highly probable that he hadn’t made sure she wouldn’t get pregnant that day. But she’d taken care of it, hadn’t she? She knew how.

  “If you want full proof, we can do a paternity test,” she pointed out, paradoxically calm. It was as though finally rousing him to the same level of panicked anger and fear she had allowed her to become calm. “The hospital is right here. If you need the proof.”

  “No!” Merran exclaimed, leaning down to press his hands against the bar at the foot of the bed. “No,” he said more calmly, mixed emotions pouring through him. He knew for certain he was not wrong in what he had to do. He could feel her expectations, the pressure of what she wanted him to say, and he braced himself to disappoint her. “Tamara, listen.” He took a deep breath. “It doesn’t matter in the end. Even if she is mine, even if I am the one who got you … I can’t acknowledge her. I can’t. You would become the focus of the paparazzi. I don’t want my child raised in the public eye, Tamara. I don’t want to do that to you either. I can work it so you are supported monetarily. But don’t you see that I can’t be what you want me to be? I can’t be your husband, your lover, and I can’t claim her as my daughter. I can’t change what I am.” He stood up. “I can’t be what you want me to be, Tamara,” he repeated. She was wide open, and he could clearly read the fear and disappointment in her. “Look, I’m not running away from my responsibilities. I’m trying to think of what’s best for you both, no matter if I am her father or not.” He took a deep breath and came to the side of the bed, sinking to his knees. “Look,” he said again, trying to get through to her, although he could tell she wasn’t listening. “If she is mine, and I’m willing to admit it is a possibility, a very strong possibility, I do want to be a part of her life. I just can’t be what you want me to be.” He reached out a hand to hover above her stomach. The baby’s unformed thoughts reached out to him, and he was helpless to them.