by Sharon
Tradition has it that lifemates share a “bond of heart and mind.” In view of Liaden cultural acceptance of “wizards,” some scholars have interpreted this to mean that lifemates are “psychically” connected. Or, alternatively, that the only true lifematings occur between wizards.
There is little to support this theory. True, lifematings among Liadens are rare. But so are life-long marriages among Terrans.
—From “Marriage Customs of Liad”
ANNE SIGHED AND PUSHED back from the computer. Standing, she stretched high on her toes, ceiling tiles an inch beyond her fingertips.
It takes going to Liad and living among folk half your own size to find a ceiling that’s tall enough. She grinned and finished her stretch, glancing to Doctor yo’Kera’s work table, where Shan sat, silky white head bent over his Edu-Board.
The Edu-Board was a self-paced, self-programmed wonder, sure enough, and it held Shan’s attention like nothing before. Anne tipped her head, watching her son work, feeling a buzz of determined concentration somewhere in the behind of her mind.
Just like his ma, she thought, and felt her mouth twist into a smile. And his da, too, truth be told.
The smile grew a bit wistful. She had woken in the gray of dawn, to feel warm lips on her cheek and a light hand caressing her hair.
“Sleep again, darling,” Er Thom whispered in the intimate, only-for-kin Low Tongue. “I shall see you this evening.”
Drowsily obedient, she had nestled back into the quilt, waking again several hours later to full sunlight and the wonder of having two endearments from Er Thom within the space of a single night.
Gods love the man, she thought in exasperation. How am I ever to leave, if he turns up sweet now?
“Ma?” Shan looked up from his device. “Says play and rest.”
“Module full?” She moved, bending over him to peer at the miniature screen.
EXERCISE TIME! The top line was in Terran, scribed in cheery blue letters. Below, in green letters, was the Liaden approximation: PLAY WITH THE BODY, REST THE MIND.
Anne blinked and looked down at the top of her son’s bright head.
“What does this say?” she asked, pointing at the Terran letters.
“Time to exercise,” Shan said, patient, if inaccurate.
Anne pointed at the Liaden line. “What does this say, Shannie?”
“I’ganin brath’a, vyan se’untor.” He craned his head backward to look at her out of wide silver eyes. “Play in body, rest in mind. Mirada says. Mirada says, pilots run and think.”
“Well, Mirada’s certainly right there,” Anne said wryly, recalling Er Thom’s hair-raising dash between the lumbering big-rig and his son.
Planned that trajectory to a hair, laddie, she thought. And then called it nevermind. She sighed and reached down to touch her son’s face.
“You like Mirada a lot, Shannie?”
“Love Mirada.” He blinked solemnly. “Play now, Ma?”
She laughed and rumpled his hair. “Regular con artist.” She shook her head ruefully.
“I expect I could use a rest, too. How’s this meet your fancy, boy-o? We’ll have us a race down to the snack shop at the end of the hall, nibble a bit, then come back for an hour more so I can finish my search line. OK?”
“OK!” he said energetically and popped out of his seat. “Last winner’s a rotten egg!”
It was Jerzy who had taught Shan first winner and last winner, a philosophical concept that was about as alien to Liaden thought as you could get. Anne hesitated, turning to stare around Doctor yo’Kera’s tiny, comforting office.
Liad.
Liadens.
An entire culture that counted coup, that held melant’i and the keeping of melant’i to be vital work. A culture cutthroat and competitive in every imaginable area, where people were divided into two camps—kin and opponents.
On Liad, there were never first winners and last winners.
On Liad, you won. Or you lost.
Anne shivered, remembering Drusil tel’Bana’s grief-filled half-ravings. Had there been some esoteric balancing of social accounts which Doctor yo’Kera had lost, thus forfeiting the central proof of his life-work?
Forfeiting, as well, his life?
“Ma?” Shan tugged at her hand, bringing her out of her morbid dreamings. She smiled down at him.
“Ma’s being a rare, foolish gel. Never mind.” She opened the door, turned and made certain it was locked before she looked back to her son and dropped his hand with a flourish.
“Last winner’s a rotten egg!” she cried and they were off.
IT HAD TAKEN MORE than an hour—or even two—to finish her systematic search of Doctor yo’Kera’s private terminal. Somewhere in the midst of it, she roused herself to call Trealla Fantrol and leave two messages: One for the host, regretting that she would be unable to attend Prime meal.
And one for Er Thom—rather warmer—regretting the same and hoping to see him later in the evening.
You’re shameless, she told herself. Why not practice leaving go of the man now?
But, after all, there would be plenty of time to practice life without Er Thom—later. Anne sighed and glanced over at Shan, who was curled up atop the work table, fast asleep in the nest of her jacket, white head resting on Mouse.
He woke on his own just as the data-core copy was completed. A disk sighed out of the side slot. She pulled it free and shut down the main system, shaking her head.
Fruitless.
She’d known it would be, of course, but hope had been there. The next task, she supposed, tucking the disk safely away into her case, was a search of the books—a daunting task, and one likely to take more time than remained of semester break.
She wondered if Er Thom might give her a special rate on shipping the things to University.
Books as ballast, she thought with a tired giggle. Why not?
“All right, now, laddie, it’s home for us!”
Shan yawned and wriggled free of her jacket. She caught him under the arms and swung him to the floor.
“Gather your things and let’s be off.”
“OK.”
In very short order, the Edu-Board was stowed in her carry-all, Shan was in his jacket and Mouse was in his arms. Anne shrugged into her own jacket, glanced once more around the tiny office, got a grip on her case and nodded to her son.
“Stay by me, now.”
She made sure of the door, checking the lock twice, turned—and nearly fell over a man hovering at her elbow.
“For goodness’—” She retreated a step, which put her back against the door, her hand rising toward her throat in a gesture of surprise.
The man—perhaps thirty, with a peculiarly blank face and curiously flat brown eyes, neat, forgettable clothing, neat, nondescript hair—also fell back a step, bowing profoundly.
“I beg your pardon,” he said in expressionless Trade. “It seemed you were experiencing difficulty with the door and I had thought to offer aid.”
Anne looked down at him—rather a way, as he was significantly shorter than Er Thom—and returned his bow of Stranger to Outworlder precisely.
“Thank you,” she said, choosing the High Tongue mode of Nonkin, which was cool. Very cool. “I am experiencing no difficulty. I had merely wished to be certain the mechanism was engaged.”
The man’s eyes flickered. He bowed again—Respect to Scholarship, this time—and when he answered, it was in the High Tongue, Student to Teacher.
“You must forgive me if my use of Trade offended. I did not at first apprehend that of course you must be the Honored Scholar who shall complete Doctor yo’Kera’s work.” He lay his hand over his heart in a formal gesture. “I am Fil Tor Kinrae, Linguistic Technician, Student of Advanced Studies.”
Anne inclined her head. “I am Anne Davis of University, Linguistics Scholar.”
“Of course. But I keep you standing in the hallway! Please, allow me to carry your bag and walk with you to your—”
“Ma!” Shan’s voice was sharp. She looked at him in surprise, saw him staring in—fright?—at the man before her.
“Go home, Ma! Go home now!”
“Oh, dear.” She swooped down and gathered him up, felt him shivering against her, and threw a distracted, apologetic smile at the bland-faced grad student.
“I regret, sir. My child requires attention. Another time and we shall talk.”
“Another time.” Fil Tor Kinrae bowed precisely. “An honor to meet you, Scholar Davis.”
“An honor to meet you, as well.” Anne barely knew what she replied. Shan was never—never—afraid of strangers. Her stomach cramped in fear as she turned and walked rapidly down the hall, toward the carport.
THE PATIENT DRIVER settled them in the back of the car and wasted no time in putting the campus behind them. Gradually, Shan’s shivering stilled. He sighed and snuggled into her arms.
“OK now, Shannie?”
“Uh-huh.”
Anne rubbed her cheek against his hair, feeling decidedly better herself. Really, she thought. Of all the foolish starts, Annie Davis …
“What happened?” she asked her son softly.
He pushed his face against her neck.
“No sparkles,” he whispered—and shuddered.
SHE WAS LEAVING THE nursery, her thoughts on finding Er Thom, when she was intercepted by no less a personage than the yos’Galan butler.
“Scholar Davis.” Stately and austere, he inclined his head. “Thodelm yos’Galan requests the pleasure of your company in the Small Parlor.”
Which request, she thought wryly, had the force of command. She stifled a sigh and inclined her head.
“I shall be delighted to bear Thodelm yos’Galan company,” she said, glad that the Mode of Acceptance leached any flavor of untruth from her words.
“Follow me, please,” the butler replied, and turned briskly on his heel.
“WINE FOR SCHOLAR DAVIS,” Petrella yos’Galan directed and wine there was.
Mr. pak’Ora also refreshed the cup on the table at the old woman’s side, then left, the door snicking shut behind him.
Petrella took up her wine and sipped, her movements firm and formal. Anne followed suit—a solitary taste of wine, and the glass put gently aside.
“You are comfortable in our house, Scholar?” Petrella’s choice of mode this evening was Host to Guest.
Anne inclined her head and responded in like mode. “I am extremely comfortable. Thank you for your care, ma’am.”
“Hah.” Petrella glanced down, made a minute adjustment to the enameled ring she wore on the second finger of her left hand. Abruptly, she looked up, faded blue eyes intense.
“Your command of the High Tongue is praiseworthy, if I may extend a compliment,” she said with formal coolness. “It is perhaps not to be expected that your grasp of custom be so exact.” She smiled, slightly, coolly. “Indeed, I know well how slippery custom becomes, world-to-world. One would require Scout’s eyes, to never err. Few of us, alas, are able to achieve so wide an understanding.”
Anne eyed her dubiously, wondering if the old lady were going to give her a tongue-lashing for missing dinner. She inclined her head carefully.
“One hears that Captain yos’Galan’s cha’leket had been a Scout.”
“So he had. The children of yos’Phelium are often sent to the Scouts; it’s found the training tames them.” She paused. “The Scouts teach that all custom is equally compelling, which may well be true in the wide galaxy. On Liad, matters are quite otherwise.”
Anne kept silent, hands folded tightly in her lap, waiting for her host to come to the point.
A smile ghosted Petrella’s pale lips and she inclined her head as if the younger woman had spoken.
“A word in your ear, Scholar Davis?”
“Certainly.”
“You have,” Petrella said after a moment, “borne my son a child. Understand that we are grateful. At such a time in the clan’s history, when the Line Direct is become so few, every child, no matter how irregularly gotten, is a jewel. You must never doubt that the clan’s gratitude shall show itself fitly, nor that the child shall receive all care, nuturance and tutelage.”
She paused, eyes sharp, and Anne hoped fervently that her face was properly bland, giving away nothing of her bewilderment.
“Necessity, however, exists,” Petrella continued slowly. “It existed before the advent of yourself and the child you give to Korval. It exists now, unchanged. As much as your son shall be a treasure to the clan, it cannot be denied that he is but half of the Book of Clans. Such a one cannot be accepted as the heir of he who will soon be Thodelm yos’Galan. The a’thodelm is aware of this. He is also aware that a contract-wife has been chosen for him and that he is required now to wed. Indeed, a gathering in honor of the to-be-signed contract shall be held in this house two evenings hence. You are welcome to attend the gather, should you care to wish the a’thodelm and his bride happy.”
Care to wish him happy? Anne thought, around a jag of icy, incredulous grief. Could ye not have waited until I was gone? She wanted to scream the question at the woman across from her. Instead, she swallowed and remained silent, hands fisted on her lap, face determinedly smooth.
Once more, Petrella’s faded eyes scrutinized. Once more, she inclined her head as if Anne had made some fitting reply.
“My son speaks highly of you, Scholar. I believe that such delight as you shared must long remain in fond memory. However, it is now time for the a’thodelm to do his duty. He will expect you to stand aside.” She glanced down, rubbing her ring with an absent forefinger.
“Surely,” she murmured, eyes coming back to Anne’s face, “even among Terrans a pleasure-love must yield to a wife.”
Sleep again, darling, Er Thom murmured tenderly in memory.
Confusion washed through her, threatening to tear away her fragile mask of calm; she thought she must be trembling. Fatal to call Thodelm yos’Galan’s word into question. Even to ask for a clarification of Shan’s status in Clan Korval would expose weakness, make her vulnerable …
Carefully, she inclined her head.
“I am grateful for the care of the House,” she said, concentrating on keeping precisely to the mode of Guest to Host. “Naturally, one would not wish to be untoward … ” It was all she could think of, but it seemed it was sufficient.
Petrella smiled her cool, ravaged smile and raised a hand on which the thodelm’s enameled band spun loosely.
“Pray do not say more. It is the honor of the House to guide the guest.”
“Yes, of course.” Anne stood, desperately willing her trembling legs to support her, and made her bow to the host. “I am certain you will forgive me for leaving you so soon,” she said, though she was certain of no such thing. “My day was long and somewhat arduous. I feel the need of rest.”
“Certainly,” Petrella said, moving her hand with a remnant of grace. “Good health to the guest.”
“And to the host,” Anne responded properly, and forced herself to walk, slow and steady, from the room.
Chapter Thirty
A Healer should be contracted to attend every birth for the purpose of keeping the mother’s soul attached to her body and for easing the way through childbirth.
Such attention is doubly necessary in the case of one who has the honor to bear a child for an allied clan. In this instance, the child’s clan must instruct the Healer in addition to blur memory and assuage any painful emotions the mother may otherwise experience.
A Healer should also be summoned before the one who gave the child-seed rejoins his own kin.
—From The
Liaden Code of Proper Conduct
THE CHILD SHALL receive all care, nuturance and tutelage …
Sleep again, darling …
Even among Terrans, a pleasure-love must yield to a wife …
I am not a thief, to steal our son …
No sparkles!
The clan shall sho
w its gratitude—
“Anne?”
Gasping, she spun, hands outflung, half-curled and protective.
Er Thom caught both, his fingers shockingly warm, reassuringly strong. Her friend, her love, her ally against Liad and the terrors of Liaden custom—
Who had lied, after all, and stolen her son; who came to bed with endearments in his mouth even as he planned to wed someone other—
“Anne!” His grip tightened; worried violet eyes looked up at her out of a face that showed clear consternation.
She made a supreme, racking effort. Fatal to antagonize Er Thom. Fatal to assume, to assume—
“You’re hurting me.” Her voice sounded flat, cold as iron. Cold iron, to bane an elf-prince …
His fingers eased, but he did not let her go. Face turned to hers, concern showing plain as if it were real, he bespoke her in the Low Tongue.
“What has happened, beloved? You tremble … “
“I’ve just come from your mother—” She blurted the truth in Terran before she considered what lie would best cover her agitation.
But it seemed the truth served her purpose very well. Anger darkened Er Thom’s eyes, his mouth tightened ominously.
“I see. We must speak.” He glanced around the hallway. “Here.” He tugged on her hands. “Please, Anne. Come and sit with me.”
She let him lead her down the unfamiliar hall, into a room shrouded in covers, illuminated by the dusty light from a center-hung chandelier.
Her mind was working now, smoothly and with preternatural efficiency, laying out plans in some place that was beyond pain and bewilderment, that was concerned only with necessity.
“Here,” Er Thom said again, his Terran somewhat blurred—a certain sign of his own agitation. He left her to swirl a dust-sheet from the sofa before the dead hearth, rolled the cloth into a hasty bundle and cast it aside.
“Please, Anne. Sit.”
She did, curling into the high-swept corner. Er Thom sat next to her, turned sideways, one knee crooked on the faded brocade seat, one elbow propped along the back cushion. He looked elegant, all grace and beauty in his wide-sleeved shirt and soft-napped trousers. Anne looked away.