The Fall

by Christie Meierz

  “The Suralia his grandmother—”

  “Yes, your game,” she interrupted. “You cannot forgive my grandson for what his grandmother did, though he had not yet been born.”

  He looked down at his hands, resting on his knees. The Sural would rule Tolar today regardless of who had won the power struggle in his grandfather’s time.

  “Brialar.” He looked up. “It would be far more fitting for you to hate Parania.”

  Surprise loosened his tongue. “Hate Parania?” he sputtered. “Why should I hate Parania? We have been friends from childhood.”

  “It was the Paran his grandfather who thwarted your grandfather’s ambitions, not Suralia.”

  “The Paran is not responsible for his grandfather.”

  “Neither is the Sural responsible for his grandmother.”

  The Brial opened his mouth, then closed it again.

  “Hear me, child,” she said. “My grandson was not even of age when I gave him the leadership of the ruling caste. Do you know why?”

  “Because even in his youth, he could kill any of us if he chose.”

  She tilted her head, a denial and a rebuke. “Because the fire of events the day he took power forged him, despite his lack of experience.”

  “Highest, what has this to do with me?”

  “It is time for you to consider that you may have misjudged Suralia.”

  He lowered his gaze. “Yes, highest.”

  “Give me your hands.”

  She held slim hands out to him, waiting. His own swallowed them.

  “Close your eyes,” she said.

  He did so, then drew a sharp breath. An empathic image of his province filled his senses, its hundreds of thousands of people dotting the surface like stars.

  Her voice grew soft. “See your people. Fold your senses around them.” As she uttered the words, his senses expanded over Brialar and engulfed the lights, melting into them, becoming a part of them. The life of every Briali on the planet flowed into him. He gasped.

  “You are Brialar.”

  Joy burst through him. He sensed it flow into the ruling bond and lift the spirits of every Briali in the complex. Longing to be in the heart of his province filled him, almost painful in its intensity.

  The Jorann pulled her hands from his to open a crystal box on the arm of her chair. She took a tiny white cube from it and placed it in his hands.

  “Take my blessing,” she said. “You have ruled well. Now guide your people with my heart.”

  “You honor me, highest,” he said, and placed the small cube on his tongue. It dissolved, leaving his entire body tingling.

  “Go now, Brialar.”

  Heart flying, he stood and gave a profound bow, then turned and walked to the heavy metallic doors to the corridor.

  * * *

  Laura sipped at a thick yellow soup. Everyone was being so careful of her, the Paran most of all. Now he had gone off to the Circle, and Azana sat across the table from her, eating one-handed while cradling Laryth. Few people occupied the refectory, which suited Laura. She kept a grip on her barriers and blocked out everyone, though it broke her heart to block the baby. His innocent probing would have given her an opportunity for a quick and hopefully unnoticed empathic caress.

  The Brial came tripping through the door, his face glowing, ties and connections flowing from him that hadn’t been there before. Eyes alight, he spotted her and crossed the room to take the chair at the head of the table.

  “I greet you!” he said in a cheery voice.

  “You forgot to bow,” Laura said, deadpan.

  He jumped up and performed an elaborate obeisance. “A beautiful woman must never suffer disappointment!” he exclaimed. Then he turned to Azana and repeated the bow. “I am the Brial.”

  “This is Laryth, the son of Parania,” she said, “and I am Azana, his fafea.”

  Laura’s heart twinged.

  “I greet you also,” the Brial pronounced, slipping back into the chair. He grabbed some food off the trays on the table, his eyes wandering over Azana and taking in the color of her robe. “What manner of science do you study?”

  “Mathematics.” Azana tried to wipe her fingers one-handed and shoved the cloth around the table instead. “I am engaged with one of the Paran’s research teams.”

  The Brial snatched the cloth and grasped her hand with it, wiping away the crumbs from the roll she’d just eaten. His presence stretched in her direction—and hers toward him. He was not quite the carefree ruler Laura had met on her arrival, but neither had the bonds that now joined him to his distant province entirely changed the man.

  Laura nudged her aide. “I would like to rest,” she said.

  “Do you leave us so quickly?” the Brial asked. “I might come to believe you do not share your Paran’s affection for me.”

  “I have spent too little time in your presence to feel anything for you.” The aide helped her to her feet.

  He clutched at his belly. “Wounded by a beauty!”

  “You will find a way to survive.”

  “Perhaps comforted by another?” He waggled an eyebrow at Azana.

  Azana smiled and shook her head as Laura turned away. In the cool of the corridor, Laura stopped to catch her breath.

  “You did not rest long enough in the refectory, artist,” the aide said.

  “No, but…” She leaned on the sturdy, yellow-robed woman and took a few more steps. “I want to be alone.”

  The aide nodded and took most of her weight as she made her way back to the Paranian quarters. The Paran stood in the middle of the sitting room, reading his tablet and rubbing his chin, when the aide helped her through the doorway. He stuffed the tablet in a pocket and strode toward her, pulling his senses into himself as he approached.

  But they were bonded, after all, and she looked deeper. He was full to overflowing with longing and heartsickness, for a woman she did not recognize. Her rival. Herself, once upon a time.

  Her heart contracted. “No,” she said simply.

  He stopped, brows knitted. Escaping from the hand of the aide, she stepped past him and managed to walk without staggering into her sleeping room.

  Numbly, she collapsed onto the bed and stared at the ceiling. The Brial and Azana had yearned toward one another. The Paran had, on the other hand, pulled away, so that he could fulfil the courtesies that decency demanded. But as for his heart… He doesn’t want me anymore. She tried to feel something, anything, but nothing came, no tears, no anger, not even hurt, just soul-draining fatigue. Perhaps she was just too tired. She shut out the world and slid into sleep.

  * * *

  Farric stood at his father’s right shoulder in the small, round meeting room; Sharana stood at his father’s left. Across the table, the ruler of Vedelar sat, her adolescent son at her right shoulder and her chief advisor next to him. Bertie paced and gesticulated to one side, explaining with glowing eyes the details of interstellar commerce on the trade station soon to be built in Tolar orbit, while Sharana translated.

  The Vedelia supported Suralia in most things, but she did have an interest in the possibilities of off-world trade, and Father, of course, was happy to exploit any opportunity to increase his majority. The greater the potential humiliation to Suralia, the happier he became.

  But Farric sensed more to it than that. The line of Vedelar was not only influential, but had traditionally been the final arbiters in questions of Tolari honor, short of a full meeting of the ruling caste, or a decision of the Jorann. Father seemed to find that important, and Farric was not at all sure that he wanted to know why.

  Farric put aside those uncomfortable thoughts and let his mind drift.

  Memory intruded.

  After the initial meeting of the Circle, fatigue had forced Sharana to enter the Monrali quarters to seek rest, and she and Father had fought. He had, it seemed, been trying to stay close enough to keep her bond-hunger triggered until she would allow him to touch her. The endeavor had failed. She left her slee
ping room, and they stood in the sitting room near the door shouting at each other, until Farric sensed violence building in his father and stepped between them.

  Father had committed the shocking act of raising a hand as if to strike his bond-partner, and then thought better of it.

  They had all slept badly, after that.

  He very much feared that if the Sural succeeded in keeping caste leadership, Father would commit further desperate acts, and all of Monralar would die. He might already have done enough to dishonor himself, either on Tolar or in his dealings with the outworld races. And though Farric could not determine the extent of his actions, Father had fooled everyone. His allies thought him a genius; his enemies believed him an arrogant disturber of the peace. Neither side knew the true extent of his ambition.

  There had to be a way to bring his father back to sanity.

  “Do you have any other questions?” Bertie asked.

  Sharana translated. The Vedelia shook her head and glanced up at her son. “Tannyf?”

  “No, Mother,” the boy said, his voice cracking on the second word. A flash of embarrassment radiated from him before he shut his barriers as tightly as he could. Bertie flashed him an encouraging grin.

  “Lord Albert, you may go,” Father said.

  Bertie executed a perfect bow to each ruler, first to the Vedelia and then to the Monral, and strode from the room. Sharana took advantage of the brief confusion to follow him out before Father could stop her.

  “Farric.” The Monral pointed his chin at the door.

  Farric chose to misunderstand. Once in the corridor, rather than go after Sharana, he camouflaged and hurried to the great central hall. When the servants closed the great doors of meteoric iron behind him, then, and only then, did he drop his camouflage. No one out of range would know the color of the one visiting the Jorann.

  She sat alone. “Come, child,” she said.

  He crossed the room and knelt at her feet in the stinging cold within the field.

  “Mother of us all,” he said, “help me save my people.”

  * * *

  In answer to the Jorann’s summons, the Monral strode into the great hall and waited as the doors closed behind him. Ahead of him, the Sural stood before the Jorann’s seat, his face a mask. And to one side of the Sural, bowing to him respectfully, was—

  Farric.

  The Jorann stood and spread her hands. “You have a matter of importance to discuss,” she said, and turned to descend from her seat and leave him with the Sural.

  He went forward to face his… son, if he could still call him that. Denunciation sat ready on his tongue, but Farric met his eyes without flinching.

  “Do you betray me?” he asked instead.

  Farric opened his barriers. “No, Father.”

  Truth. He expelled a breath and nodded. But if Farric had not betrayed him, then the threat hanging in the air came from—

  “Monralar,” the Sural said. “You assassinated the heir to Parania and her first-bond child.”

  He whipped his head up to glare at the blue-robed giant. “You dare to accuse me?”

  “You did not conceal your activities as carefully as you believe.”

  He had covered every trace, every action. The Sural could have nothing. “You cannot have proof of something which did not happen.”

  “Will you risk the lives of your people on that? And make another Detralar of your province?”

  “What do you want, Suralia?”

  “You will step down in favor of your heir. I will support any eligible ruler you choose for caste leader.”

  His lips curled into a sneer. “And if I refuse?”

  “Dishonor before the Circle.”

  No. It was impossible. The Sural sought a response or a reaction he could use as indirect proof. If he grasped at that, he could have no real evidence. “You have nothing, Suralia.”

  “I ask again, will you risk the lives of your people on that?”

  Farric put a hand on his arm. Filial affection flowed from him. “Father.”

  “Is this your doing?” he demanded. “Do you have ambition after all?”

  “I would walk into the dark for your honor, Father.”

  His barriers still down, his hand in physical contact, he sensed and felt truth ring through Farric, but neither did his son protest his enemy’s accusation. It shook him. The Sural had convinced Farric. Could he have left some piece of evidence behind, somewhere? Or had the Sural’s engineers somehow deduced the method he had used to collapse the transport tunnel?

  He shook himself. The affection coming from Farric fogged his perceptions. He had left no sign of his actions. Necessary actions. He jerked his arm away.

  “No, Suralia, I risk nothing to continue my path,” he said. “It is you who risk losing all, not I.”

  “Very well,” the Sural said. “The Jorann will call for a vote on the request to return to conventional rule at first meeting tomorrow.”

  * * *

  Laura hovered again.

  Am I dreaming? Or is this really happening? She’d fallen asleep after returning from the refectory, and… now she was flying, high above the planet’s northern pole. Below her, the Benefactors’ complex lay buried in snow and rock and winter night. Above, stars sparkled in the black. She pivoted until she found the stars pointing to Sol. Could she fly there like this? Or home, to Tau Ceti?

  Come to me.

  She looked down. The Jorann’s bright, bright light shone. She dove toward it and found the fair Tolari standing alone in a room resembling nothing so much as a cave of ice, attached to the great central hall by a passage behind her throne.

  “I greet you, child,” the Jorann said, her eyes sparkling. “But why are you not with your beloved?”

  Laura sank under the weight of the pain the question triggered, then drew herself together.

  He can have his memories. He doesn’t even know me.

  “But how can he come to know you, child, if you will not share your heart and your time with him?”

  She couldn’t think of an answer to that.

  The Jorann smiled. “Your time is short. Find him now, child. Listen to what he says to one he trusts.”

  Spy on him? Wasn’t that dishonorable, to the Tolari way of thinking?

  “Not in matters of the heart. Go.” She flicked her fingers. “Go.”

  Laura fanned her senses over the complex. The Paran was… there, not far from their quarters, with the Brial. She glanced back. The Jorann flicked her fingers again. With a mental shrug, Laura flew toward him, through the complex, through the walls, and once, through a servant, to the place where…

  The Brial and the Paran occupied a sitting room, a bottle of spirits on a low table between them. The Brial sprawled back in his chair, legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles, affecting indifference, but deep concern lay beneath his façade. The Paran bent forward over his knees, hands hanging loosely, head down. His barriers were shut to the Brial, but his heartbreak seared through her own soul.

  “She was beautiful,” the Paran whispered. “Burned and aching, more concerned for a frightened transport pod than for herself. We had forgotten to teach her how to barrier herself—did not know she had forgotten because we did not ask—but she uttered not a word of complaint. And here, just yesterday, uncomplaining when those around her forgot themselves and carried on a conversation in a language she could not understand. She called no attention to herself and left only when she truly needed rest.”

  “Go to her.”

  “I did not know I could hurt her so badly.”

  The Brial poured from the bottle into two shot-glass sized cups. “Parania, hear me. Go to her.”

  “She told me to stay away.” The Paran picked up one of the cups and swallowed its contents, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

  “You think she meant it?”

  “I know she did.”

  “And your feelings never change? Go to her.”

  “H
er heart is shut against me.”

  “Did you replace your head with a rock? Hear me. Offer her your heart. You are bonded. She will know you mean it. Go to her.”

  “Speaks the heart thief.”

  “Better a thief of hearts on a warm mat than a bonded heart on a cold one.”

  The Paran snorted. “Digger squid.”

  “Sand crawler. Go to her, or I will trade my surplus lumber for Vedeli marble rather than Paranian.”

  “Hah! Your artisans would turn their backs on you.”

  “As will yours on you, when they discover they cannot make their superb Paranian bows without Briali greenwood.” He poured more spirits. “Here. One more. Then get out of my quarters. I will need my wits about me tomorrow if the Jorann confirms Monralar.”

  Laura backed away. I need to wake up. How do I wake up?

  Open your eyes, child.

  The dream broke into fragments of thought as she gasped and opened her eyes on the dimly-lit sleeping room. Above, unseen through layers of ice and rock, she could almost feel the stars burning in the long polar night. Heart racing, she threw off the blanket and wrapped her arms around her knees. Would the Paran take the Brial’s counsel and come to her? He was moving this way, but that didn’t mean he would follow his friend’s advice. She shadowed him with her senses, felt him come through the outer door into the sitting room, heard him now, moving… past her door.

  Her heart splintered into shards of anguish. She buried her face in her knees and sobbed. It had only been a dream.

  He stopped. Moved back toward her door. Opened it.

  “Beloved?”

  She sobbed harder. He closed the door behind him and came to sit on the edge of the bed.

  “Why do you weep?”

  “It was—only a—dream,” she stuttered between sobs.

  “Did you suffer an unpleasant dream?”

  “You were drinking spirits with the Brial. He told you to come to me.” She hiccupped. “But you walked past my door. It was only a dream.”

  He went still. “How could you hear us?”

  “I saw—today I saw two people meet and be attracted to each other,” she stammered. “And I thought, if you were attracted to me like that, maybe you still wanted me. But you pulled your senses in when you saw me, and the Jorann said you would never really know me if—if…”