“That could have been us,” she said.
He expelled a long breath, his long fingers trailing down an arm. “Yes.”
“My father wanted me to be smart. He said everything would be better when I was smart. He tried everything, and he waited for the… the apothecaries to make me smart, but no matter what they did, it never worked. I stayed stupid.”
He shifted onto his side and pulled her into his chest. “You are not stupid.”
“You and Marianne and Syvra, you were all waiting for me to remember my life and become wise and wonderful, just like my father waited for me to become smarter. He was so disappointed in me when the treatments did not work. Make me smarter, make me wiser—not much difference, so far as I can see. I figured you would be disappointed too.”
“Forgive me, beloved, for hurting you so.” He sighed and kissed her hair. “And still you saved my life.”
“Well, I do sort of like you.” She pressed a kiss into his chest. “And the Jorann let everyone think it was her, anyway.”
“To protect you, I think.”
“Because my mind is… broken?”
“You are not broken.” He put a finger over her lips when she tried to protest. “Injured, yes. You need time to heal. But your heart is beautiful, and I want to be with you as long as you will have me.”
The refectory in Parania. The Paran’s fingers laced through hers, his eyes intent on her face. Why then did you do it?
To be with you as long as you’ll have me.
His joy flowed over her.
“Beloved?”
The dim light of the sleeping room snapped back.
“What did you say?” she asked. The love she’d felt then thrilled through her now.
“I want to be with you as long as you will have me.”
She tilted her head back to look into his face. “I said that to you. Before.”
“Yes, you did.” His eyes gleamed. “It was a few days after we decided to bond.”
“I wish I could remember more of the days we had—then.”
“Oh beloved.” His arms tightened around her. “My heart is still yours.”
She caught her breath. “Truly? If I never remember? If I stay the way I am?”
“I am content to hold those memories for both of us. You mean more to me than the two short seasons we lost.”
Her eyes stung, and she nuzzled into his neck. “Help me make some new memories tonight,” she whispered.
* * *
Another ceremony in the great hall. Laura extended her senses and drank in the complex mix of emotion while the Sural talked, other rulers talked, rulers stood up, rulers sat down. When the Paran sat back on his heels—again—she snaked out a hand and caught his fingers. He emitted a noise like he couldn’t quite succeed in stifling a chuckle.
At the end of it all, the Sural turned, walked into the field around the Jorann’s throne, and knelt at her feet.
Look as much as you like, the Jorann’s voice had said in her dreams.
Laura looked. The Jorann put a hand on each side of the Sural’s head and riffled through him like the pages of a book, searching his soul. After what had happened with the Monral—with the Monral his father—whatever—she guessed the Jorann couldn’t be too careful with her rulers, but even devious as he was, nothing in the Sural came close to the darkness she’d seen in the former Monral, there at the end. Smiling, the Jorann lowered her hands from his head, opened the crystal box in her lap, and fed him one of the little cubes directly from her fingers.
Laura cast a glance around the Circle. The young girl in the heir’s place on the Suralia dais—she had the Sural’s eyes—sat bursting with pride, and Marianne had all she could do to keep bright little Rose quiet as the tot strained and reached for her daddy. Farric—the new Monral—whatever—sat alone, watching the proceedings with no expression on his face, but underneath, sadness echoed through him. The Brial met her eyes and broke into a wicked grin, making a pointed glance at where her fingers twined with the Paran’s. Her face heated, and his grin broadened.
The Sural stood and backed away from the throne, turning to face the Circle. He spread his arms, and, just as at the first ceremony, pairs of rulers began to take places in the center of the room. They danced again, and this time, when the Brial passed near the Sural, their fingers touched, if only for an instant. Euphoria grew and overwhelmed them all, and the rulers danced until none could continue, and they returned to their daises, chests heaving, faces glowing. The Paran climbed back on the dais, elated, sparks of pride shooting through him as his eyes swept around the room.
The Jorann rose to her feet and spoke, hands extended.
“The Circle is complete,” the Paran whispered.
When Laura looked again, the Jorann had disappeared, and her glow moved toward the passageway to her quarters.
“What now?” she asked.
“We return home,” the Paran said, his voice resonant with relief.
* * *
The transit hub echoed with the voices of hundreds of people and servants milling around dozens of huge transport pods. All around Laura the pods hummed with anticipation, well-rested and eager to dive into the tunnels. A small figure in brown, a young girl of perhaps ten or eleven standard years, streaked across the hub.
“Laura!” she cried, throwing both arms around her.
Laura steadied herself on the Paran’s arm and put a hand on one brown-robed shoulder. “Do I know you?”
The girl looked up, blinking, her forehead wrinkled, and uttered something in another language. The Paran spoke to her in a kind voice, but her eyes widened and she answered him with a stricken expression on her face.
“Her name is Thela, beloved,” the Paran said. “Her father had recently suffered a sudden death when you first came to Tolar. You found solace spending time together.”
“Oh.” Laura hugged the girl. “My heart grieves for your pain.”
Thela squeezed her, speaking in emphatic tones.
“She said she is still your friend, and she will learn Paranian so she can speak with you again.”
Laura squeezed her back and smiled into her face. “My gratitude.”
“Thela!” Marianne crossed the hub, Rose on her hip, speaking to the girl in the same language the Paran had used.
Thela gave her one last squeeze and scampered off. Marianne hesitated, glancing back and forth between Laura and the Paran.
“This will be farewell for quite some time,” she said, finally.
The Paran replied before Laura could force her mouth open. “My gratitude, dear one. You are always welcome in my stronghold.”
“Marianne—” Laura’s mouth went dry. “Forgive me. For what I said. It was wrong.”
Marianne’s face relaxed into a smile, and she pulled Laura into a warm, one-armed hug. “Forgive me,” she said. “I made you feel unwanted.” Rose squealed. “And Rose agrees.”
Laura ruffled the baby’s hair. “Take good care of this one. She is very bright.”
“I will.” Marianne stepped back. “I have to go.”
Laura watched her cross the hub to the Suralian transport pod. The Paran touched her shoulder.
“Come, beloved,” he said. “Our pod awaits.”
* * *
CCS-52-2953
FROM: Adeline Pearson Russell
SUBJECT: Tolar activity
Communications intercepted between Lord Albert Rembrandt and his father’s holdings on Britannia indicate a major shake-up in the ruling caste, but no change in leadership. In a successful attempt to contact the Sural (transcript and recording attached), we reminded him of his ambassador’s agreement re: an Earth-controlled trade station, and he responded with a suggestion that we review the dates on our documentation.
I regret to report that when all dates are adjusted to Den station local time, our compact with Monralar predates Farric’s official appointment by approximately six hours.
(signed) Adeline Russell, Major, Ce
ntral Security
Head of Field Operations, Inner Sector
Chapter Thirty-One
After
Winter’s last gasp, such as it was on the equator, blew cold north winds over the ocean into Parania. Laura stood at the edge of the stronghold gardens, facing into the wind, eyes closed. The cold sharpened her senses. Thus focused, she could stretch them over the city spread out before her.
In the scholar’s tower, a woman gave birth to a daughter. An old man breathed his last breath in the laborers’ quarter, sparsely populated now that most had poured into the countryside to prune the trees in Parania’s fruit orchards, but his daughter and grandson stayed with him as his light went out, their bright, sharp grief piercing Laura’s heart. In a laboratory on the outskirts of the city, an over-eager apprentice burned himself. Everywhere, people went about their daily tasks, some focused, some not, none aware of her scrutiny.
She opened her eyes and pulled her senses back. You’re really not human anymore, girl.
Her days were full now. Her heated resin paintings of planets from orbit had begun to achieve some small fame in Parania, and she taught two young artists a variety of shadow-pen techniques their elders had never seen. No one stood still, waiting for the new trade compacts to bring materials from the outworlds; already signs of an aesthetic renaissance cropped up everywhere. She might be a part of art history here, some day.
As for her nights—
Behind her, the Paran thrummed with deep happiness as he left the keep and crossed the ferny groundcover. Shivering. She grinned, but didn’t turn when he came up behind her and slipped his arms around her waist, pulling her back against him.
“Beloved,” he breathed in her ear.
“Mm.” She hooked a hand around the back of his neck. “What brings you outside on a day like this?”
His arms tightened around her to steal more of her body heat. “The framer returned your painting.”
“Oh!” She freed herself and grabbed a hand to tow him along toward the keep. “But why did you come to tell me yourself? You could have sent a servant.”
“And lose the opportunity to watch your face when you see it?”
“Where is it?”
“The family library.”
She changed course, angling toward the door to the family wing. A shiver vibrated though the Paran’s arm. “You could have sent a servant and then stood beside it waiting,” she said. “I know you have a lot of work now that spring is here.”
“I am not so busy that I cannot share my beloved’s delight.”
“Is it that beautiful?” She pulled him through a door situated along the family wing.
He chuffed in the keep’s warmth, rubbing his upper arms.
“You are such a baby about a little cold air,” she told him.
He broke into an eye-crinkling grin.
She stopped and peered at him. “Have I said that before?”
“Something very like it, yes. The topic of the moment was cold water.”
“Then I was right about that, too.” She tugged on his arm and headed for the library, skipping ahead as he followed, chuckling. The door opened as they reached it.
Laura gasped as she caught sight of the work, set up on her easel near the windows: Tolar from orbit, perhaps a meter wide and a meter high, framed in a black wood the same shade as the starry background. With no obvious seam anywhere, the wood grain followed the lines around the outside of the canvas, its inner edge feathered into the painting itself with such skill she almost couldn’t tell where the framer’s work stopped and hers started.
She found herself staring, breathless, one hand on her chest.
“I believe your caste leader will approve,” the Paran said, draping an arm around her shoulder.
She nodded. “I should take it to him tomorrow.”
“He is here now, in the guest wing common room.”
“Oh!”
Laura whirled to run out of the library and down the curving hall, stopping just short of the common room doors to smooth her robe. The Paran caught up with her while she fussed.
“How do I look?” she asked, raking her fingers through her hair.
“Beautiful.” He extended a forearm.
“You would say that if I stood here covered in stains and splatters,” she said, but she took the proffered arm.
A flick of his hand, and the door opened to reveal a veritable gallery of her works. Charcoal drawings she had done before, of flowers and trees, of the Paran, of a woman with her child, of an old man, hung on easels among the newer hot resin paintings of planets and stars. A short, graying man in artisan purple, with embroidery of the same color ornamenting the collar and cuffs of his robe, stood examining a charcoal of the Paran. He turned and bent in a deep bow as they approached.
The Paran nodded acknowledgment. “Be welcome, artisan.”
“You honor me, high one,” the man said. He gave Laura a respectful bow. “Artist.”
She didn’t hesitate to return the bow, and offered a welcoming smile. “Artisan.”
He indicated the charcoal he had been examining. “We met on the day you drew this. Do you remember?”
“I regret. I remember little before my injury.”
“How unfortunate. I am Rathyn, leader of Parania’s artisan caste. It does please me to see your talent remained unaffected by your mishap. I understand you have a masterwork to offer the art center in the city?”
Two servants entered the room, one carrying an easel, the other carrying the painting in a protective case. Laura waited for them to set the case on the easel in the middle of the room before taking up a position beside it.
“My most recent finished work,” she said, and opened the case.
Rathyn went still, his eyes moving over the depiction of Tolar from orbit with a critical gleam. He moved closer and bent to examine it for long moments, his nose almost touching it, then stepped back and straightened to view it from a few steps away.
“Yes,” he said, nodding slowly. “You show a fine understanding of our encaustic technique. This will add grace to our exhibits.”
“Does it earn her a master’s rank, then, artisan?” the Paran asked.
Rathyn’s eyebrows went up. He glanced around at the charcoals and paintings. “I had thought you already a master of your craft.”
“I have no rank at all,” Laura said.
The eyebrows climbed higher. “An oversight, surely. I shall have a word with the stronghold’s artists before I leave. Consider the rank given.”
The Paran laid a hand on Laura’s shoulder. She could sense his heart swelling at her… colleague’s… reaction to her art. Colleague. The word sank in and lit a warm glow.
I have a place here. She tucked herself under the Paran’s arm.
“Forever,” he murmured.
* * *
Farryn ghosted through the restricted corridors at Tau Ceti Station, camouflaged, working his way toward the heavily-guarded residence taking up a substantial section of the inner ring. He had spent days of careful surveillance timing the comings and goings of the human guards in this part of the station, and it seemed he made his move with little time to spare. Word on the street, as the humans put it, said the Chairman lay dying. He had checked his own sources on the matter, and the reports appeared to be true. The news came as a relief to the majority of humans he heard whispering about it.
Not so to Farryn. He still had business to conduct with the odalli ruler.
He ducked into a doorway, waited for the pair of armed guards to pass, and slipped out when the hall was clear. He had almost reached the back entrance of the Chairman’s section. If the humans followed their routine—stupid odalli!—several of the staff would leave their work for the day mere moments after he reached the back passageway. He squeezed into the corner next to the door and searched with his senses.
Yes, a group of humans on the other side of the door moved this way. He waited. Once he made it into the Chairman’s r
esidence, then, his contact with the Triads said, then the fun would start.
The door whooshed open, carrying the scent of plant life in the escaping air. He timed his movements and slipped through the doorway as the group of staff members exited, one by one. The air smelled richer inside, and he could sense the plants directly now. More guards moved along paths through them.
He squatted near the wall—the bulkhead, the humans called it—and cast his senses out as far as he could. He had not found any information on guard movements within the Chairman’s section of the station. Not that he had expected to. The odalli could be stupid, but not that stupid. Still, the low number of guards in here surprised him. Perhaps the four-legged animals walking with them—
One of the creatures made a loud noise, straining at its tether, its nose pointed toward Farryn.
“What is it, boy?” the guard said. “Do ya see somethin’?”
The animal whined, then burst into a flurry of cries. Farryn snared its senses and delivered a brutal empathic blow. The thing collapsed into a seizure.
“Pilot!” the human exclaimed.
“Hey Danny,” another voice called. A presence veered toward the nearby guard and his stricken creature. “What’s the matter?”
Perfect. With the odalli guards distracted, he jogged along the path to the back door of the building in the middle of the huge space. Now he would see if the false skin for which he had paid so much money was worth it. He dropped his camouflage, gripped the door’s smart handle, and waited.
A heartbeat later, the door recognized the genetic code of the false skin on his hand and clicked open. He re-camouflaged, pushing the door open just enough to slip through.
The house stank of age and death. He closed the door behind him. Even here, in what appeared to be the kitchen, the odor of decay lingered in the air. Wrinkling his nose, he padded through the room, past a dark corner from which emanated unmistakable sounds of human passion, and into a carpeted hall, casting his senses ahead of him.
Few of the house’s inhabitants moved. He slipped past a room full of guards playing a card game. From the sound of it, it was the same game Bertie had taught the Monral his son. He shook his head and peered through the camouflage gloom. The door to the Chairman’s bedroom stood unguarded. No one expected an intruder to get past the roomful of card-playing guards, it seemed, or perhaps the guards who should be here had abandoned their posts for the game. Standing at the door, he reached into the room. The Chairman slumbered. Another presence in the room with him also slept, leaving the man who ruled thirty billion humans essentially unguarded.
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