by Sharon Lee
He had written letters, to colleagues, to former students, to rivals, begging their condescension and pointing them to his applications. He had fortunately gained a place for the coming term as an Expert Lecturer on Cultural Genetics at Searston University, thanks to the very kind office of a former student, now an influential alumnus.
He was bound there now, and how fortunate that he had indulged his whim, back when he was a graduate student and had time for such things as whims! A first class pilot's license was a useful tool, and if the good ship L'il Orbit was not as posh as some, it was everything that a research scholar who had lately taken the decision to bring his insights to the classroom could need—or afford.
He finished his last packet and queued it to send. He had one more to compile, then he could quit the wayroom and return to L'il Orbit. Time had gotten a bit tighter than he had wished and he was going to have to fly hard in order to reach his Expert Seminar by the date and time stated in his contract.
Kiladi reached to the keyboard, his fingers fumbling enough so that he botched his command. He sighed. He was very tired, but he dared not make use of the thin bunk provided. There was . . . only . . . this one . . . more . . .
He couldn't have been . . . absent long—the screen was still live when he blinked into consciousness once more.
Relief that he hadn't lost his search was quickly replaced in quick succession by puzzlement and joy.
A string of dense math filled the screen, both familiar and all but incomprehensible.
"Aelliana?" He scarcely knew he spoke, his heart was beating so that he thought a rib might break. "Aelliana, is it really you?"
You are not, her voice said so strongly that it echoed inside his head, going mad, and I wish you will listen to me. We are lifemates, and I will never leave you, Daav. I swore it.
"So you did."
He looked again at the screen. Almost, he could understand the premise, but the argument, while elegant, left him baffled. Clearly, it would require study—and if he were able to produce this sort of work while he was unconscious, then madness was the least of his troubles.
It is not a perfect bonding, I think, she said. At first—van'chela, it must have seemed to you that I had truly gone. Everything was so strange, and you were so ill . . . When I learned how to make my voice heard . . .
"I denied you," he whispered. "Aelliana, how has this—the Tree."
It would seem so, she said. Daav?
"Yes?"
You must sleep before you fly, van'chela. Please.
Kiladi, he would risk, but—Aelliana? Not a second time.
"I will," he murmured. "I promise."
Epilogue
Chancellor's Welcome Reception for the Gallowglass Chair
Lenzen Ballroom, Administration Tower Three
University of Delgado
This is more tedious than receiving the guests at your sister's Festival Eve ball, the voice only he could hear commented.
It was fairly said, he allowed, bowing yet again, this time to a sandy-haired woman with trembling hands. As much as he might otherwise deplore her, even he acknowledged that his sister possessed impeccable taste.
The sleeves of the sandy haired woman's blue robe were innocent of braid, which marked her as junior faculty. Her name, which she offered in a trembling whisper, was "Irthyn Jonis, Comparative Mythology."
"Scholar Jonis," he murmured, and she smiled nervously, dipped her head and made an escape.
He straightened, one hand resting lightly on the head of his stick. A very good stick it was, black ironwood, collared in silver; the grip bound in leather, so that it would not easily escape inattentive fingers. Simple though it was, it signaled his status to others of the community, and was otherwise useful.
Do you think, asked the voice inside his head, that's everyone?
It might, he thought, glancing about him, very well be everyone. He hadn't counted, though he supposed someone might have. Dean Zorminsen was in deep conversation with First Director Verlin at some remove from the reviewing station where he and his auditor stood. Likewise, there were clumps of scholars all about, none seeming particularly interested in the new tenant of the prestigious—no, he was wrong.
Two junior scholars were coming toward him, arm in arm. Lovers, he thought, or at the least old and comfortable friends, one dark and rounded, the other angular, her hair a wispy, middling brown. They approached with firm steps, heads high, the dark-haired one allowing a pinch of cynicism to be seen, her friend openly curious.
Ah, said the voice inside his head.
The dark-haired scholar slipped her arm free and stepped forward first, showing him the palms opened like a book, which was the style here.
"Ella ben Suzan," she said, in a fine, no-nonsense voice, "History of Education."
He bowed the bow between equals.
"Scholar ben Suzan," he murmured, committing name and face to memory.
She gave him a firm nod and stepped aside, tarrying a half-dozen steps out to await her friend.
"Kamele Waitley," said the friend, bringing pale hands together to form the open book. "History of Education."
Ella ben Suzan's voice had been fine, but to hear Kamele Waitley speak was to wish for her to speak again, perhaps to recite some poetry or—
"You are a singer, Scholar Waitley?" he asked.
Blue eyes widened, a flush stained her pale cheeks, and her shoulders stiffened beneath her robe. For an instant, he thought that he had overstepped the bounds of custom, but she recovered herself with a slight smile.
"I'm a member of a chorale," she acknowledged. "Recreational only, of course. My studies are my life's work."
"Certainly," he said carefully, "study illuminates the lives of all scholars. Yet there must be room for recreation as well, and joy in those things which are not study. I myself find a certain pleasure in . . . outdoor pursuits." The smile he offered was a mirror of her own.
"Outdoor?" She looked at him doubtfully. "Outside the Wall?"
He raised an eyebrow. "There is a whole planet outside the Wall," he murmured. "Surely you were aware?"
Blue eyes sparkled, though her demeanor remained grave. "I've heard it said," she replied. "But tell me—what manner of pleasure may be had outside of the Wall?"
"Why, all manner!" he declared, pleased with her. "Gardening, fishing, walking among the trees and growing things, watching the sun set, or the stars rise . . ."
"Watching the sun set?" Another doubtful look. "That seems a very . . . fleeting pleasure."
"I have heard it argued that the highest pleasures are ephemeral, and best enjoyed in retrospect," he said, the voice inside his head crying out, Not so! "Though there are those of us who disagree."
Kamele Waitley glanced to one side. Following her gaze, he saw that her friend had left them, moving away in the company of a tall, bluff scholar, the braid on his sleeve gleaming new, and felt a pang for her own loss of pleasure.
"Forgive me," he began, but she shook quick fingers at him—a meaningless gesture, though for a split second he thought . . .
"I think we must have been the last faculty to introduce ourselves," she said seriously. "Would you like a glass of the Dean's sherry?"
As it happened, he had previously had a glass of the Dean's sherry and found it execrable, though he could hardly say so—and besides, Kamele Waitley was still talking.
"I'd like to learn more about the pleasures of watching the sun set, if you'd be kind enough to teach me."
It was, still, easier in the dark. In the dark, he could imagine that she was lying beside him, her voice a murmur accessible to the outer ears. Sometimes, in the dark, for whole minutes at a time, he could imagine her head on his shoulder, a silken leg thrown over his . . .
"Aelliana," he said now, staring up into the darkness. "What are you planning?"
Planning, van'chela?
He snorted lightly. "No, that will not do, minx. Tell me—what necessity drives us to escort Scholar Wait
ley to a local sunset?"
She asked so nicely, his dead lifemate said. Besides, I like her. Don't you like her, Daav?
"She's well enough."
Oh, clench-fisted, van'chela! she chided him. How has the scholar offended you?
He sighed, and closed his eyes against the darkness.
"The scholar is blameless," he admitted, ashamed of his churlishness. "Indeed, I enjoyed our discussion, and would, I feel, enjoy another. She has a ready wit and seems not so bound by local culture as . . . others of my colleagues."
"In fact," Aelliana murmured, "she might well be someone who could become a good friend."
"I did not," he said tiredly, "come here to make friends."
Indeed you did not. I only ask you to pity poor Professor Kiladi, separated from clan and kin, wholly unsupported in a strange and cloistered environment. A man in such circumstances might have need of a friend—or even two.
"Professor Kiladi is a fabrication, my lady . . ."
Professor Kiladi has published widely, his scholarship is noteworthy, and his achievements undeniable, Aelliana said tartly. He is a work of art, van'chela; a work of art with a heart and a soul, sorrows and joys. You owe him at the least a brother's care, yet you drive him and make demands of him and allow him not a single joy or pleasure. I never knew you to be so meager, Daav. It troubles me. Indeed, it troubles me deeply.
Tears pricked his eyes—his or hers, it scarcely mattered. Nor did it matter that the fabrication of Jen Sar Kiladi had begun as a game; twenty years, three degrees, and dozens of scholarly papers, hundreds of students . . . Surely, Jen Sar Kiladi was every bit as alive as—as Daav yos'Phelium.
. . . or perhaps more.
Daav?
"Aelliana . . ." he gasped, the slow tears suddenly fast and hot. "Aelliana . . ."
He twisted, burying his face in the flat pillow, sobbing, and seeing it all, all again—the street, the flash, her hair swirling as she leapt to shield him, the blood, the blood . . .
Some time later, as he lay shivering and exhausted, he felt her stroke his hair, then slip close and put her arms around him. And so at last he fell asleep, imagining that she held him.
Partial Liaden Lexicon
a'nadelm
Heir to the nadelm.
a'thodelm
Heir to the thodelm.
a'trezla
Lifemates.
al'bresh venat'i
Formal phrase of sorrow for another Clan's loss, as when someone dies.
benjali
Excellent.
cantra
Liaden unit of large currency, named for Cantra yos'Phelium.
cha'leket
Heartkin; a person for whom one feels a sibling's affection.
cha'dramliza
A Healer. plural: cha'dramliz.
chernubia
Confected delicacy.
chiat'a bei kruzon
Dream sweetly.
coab minshak'a
"Necessity exists."
delm
Head of Clan.
delmae
Lifemate of a Delm.
denubia
Darling.
dramliza
A wizard. plural: dramliz (The dramliz . . . ).
eklykt'i
Unreturned.
Eldema
First Speaker (most times, the delm).
Eldema-pernard'i
First-Speaker-In-Trust.
Flaran Cha'menthi
"I(/We) Dare," Korval's motto.
ge'shada
Mazel tov; congratulations.
Glavda Empri
yo'Lanna's house.
indra
Uncle.
Jelaza Kazone
The Tree, also Korval's Own House. Approx. "Jela's Fulfillment."
Korval-pernard'i
See "Eldema-pernard'i."
Megelaar
The Dragon on Korval's shield.
melant'i
Who one is in relation to current circumstances. also who one is in sum, encompassing all possible persons one might be.
menfri'at
Liaden karate.
mirada
Father.
miravot
Altanian wine; blue in color.
nadelm
Heir to the Delm.
nubiath'a
Gift given to end an affair of pleasure.
prena'ma
Storyteller.
prethliu
Rumorbroker.
qe'andra
Person of business, i.e. an accountant.
relumma
Division of a Liaden year, equaling 96 Standard Days. Four relumma equal one year.
thawla
Mother.
thawlana
Grandmother.
thodelm
Head of Line.
tra'sia volecta
Good morning.
Trealla Fantrol
The yos'Galan house.
Tree-and-Dragon
Korval; a reference to their clan sign of a winged dragon over a tree.
Valcon Berant'a
Dragon's Price or Dragon Hoard, the name of Korval's valley.
Valcon Melad'a Dragon's Way,
the Delm's Own ship.
van'chela
Beloved friend.
va'netra
Charity case, lame puppy.
Standard Year
8 Standard Days in One Standard Week
32 Standard Days in One Standard Month
384 Standard Days in One Standard Year
Liaden Year
96 Standard Days in One Relumma
12 Standard Months in One Standard Year
One Relumma = Eight 12-day weeks
Four Relumma = One Standard Year
About the Authors
Sharon Lee and Steve Miller live in the rolling hills of Central Maine with three insistent muses in the form of cats and a large cast of characters. The husband-and-wife team's collaborative work in science fiction and fantasy include seventeen novels and numerous short stories in their award-winning Liaden Universe®. In addition to their collaborative work, Steve has seen short stories, nonfiction, and reviews published under his name, while Sharon has seen published short stories, newspaper pieces, two mystery novels, and Carousel Tides, coming from Baen in November.
Steve was the founding curator of the University of Maryland's Kuhn Library Science Fiction Research Collection and a former Nebula juror. For five years, Sharon served the Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers of America, consecutively as Executive Director, Vice President and President. Sharon's interests include music, seashores and pine cones. Steve also enjoys music, plays tournament chess, and collects cat whiskers.
THE END
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