“So when it didn’t…”
“I wasn’t disappointed. Killing them didn’t bring my parents back.”
Salomen’s brows contracted. “But you knew it would not.”
“No, I had to learn it. I had to learn the difference between avenging my parents and revenging myself. One is a duty. The other is an emotion that a true warrior rejects. And since then, I have.”
“You’ve never killed in revenge?”
“No. Not since that first time.”
Salomen nodded silently.
Tal reached out with her senses, relieved to see that her horror had faded into acceptance. Not understanding, but acceptance. She didn’t think she could hope for more than that. The warrior’s code was learned over a lifetime; it was too much to ask that one not raised in it could easily comprehend the loyalties and duties that made some actions not simply justifiable, but necessary.
“Thank you,” Salomen said at last.
“You’re welcome. Why did you ask?”
“Because I wanted to understand you.”
“Do you?”
“No. But I’m one step closer.”
Tal looked into dark eyes that seemed so much warmer than they ever had, and spoke the truth in her heart. “I think…that I want you to understand me.”
The smile that appeared on Salomen’s face was truly beautiful. Tal was too lost in contemplation of it to be prepared for what came next.
“I owe you an apology, Lancer Tal.”
Tal shook herself out of her daze. “No, you don’t.”
The smile turned self-deprecating. “The night after you arrived, I sat here beneath my mother’s portrait and called a guest in my home proud, arrogant, and unfeeling. She would have been ashamed of me.”
There was nothing Tal could say to that, so she waited.
“Last night you apologized to me. The Lancer of Alsea, apologizing to a landholder. I thought you proud, and you humbled me. I thought you arrogant, and you showed up my own arrogance. I thought you unfeeling, but now…” Salomen paused. “I confused depth of emotion with lack of it. And I of all people should know better. Will you accept my apology?”
“Without hesitation. I misjudged you as well, with very little excuse. I’m a fully trained high empath, yet I still mistook your integrity and strength of will for arrogance. You fight for what you believe is right. You may be a producer, but you have the heart of a warrior.” Tal looked up at the portrait. “I didn’t have the pleasure of knowing your mother, but I think she would have had much to be proud of.”
Salomen’s eyes grew suspiciously shiny and she dropped her head, but hiding her face could not conceal her emotions.
Tal watched in alarm, praying that she wasn’t actually going to cry.
The prayer was to no avail, and when she heard the quiet sniff, Tal found herself slipping off the window seat to kneel by Salomen’s chair. “Please don’t,” she said. “Warriors have no idea what to do with tears.”
Salomen laughed and wiped her eyes, but the tears continued to flow. “Neither do stubborn producers who carry the weight of a family and a holding on their back. Fahla, I miss her.”
She looked up and opened herself, and Tal was taken aback at the sudden onslaught of grief and longing. Salomen Opah had been keeping a great deal of pain inside.
A memory surfaced in her mind, perhaps released by Salomen’s deep need for comfort. She remembered Ekatya saying Please accept this as the gift I mean it to be and the compact body molding itself to hers. For a nineday and a half, she had experienced the precious physical comfort which Alseans denied themselves and which Gaians took for granted.
Perhaps warriors did know what to do with tears.
“Come,” she said, standing up and pulling Salomen with her. “I think you might require a hug.”
“A what?”
“A warmron, but between unbonded adults.”
“But—”
“I know, it’s not done. And that is our loss.” At Salomen’s questioning look, she added, “I learned something from the Gaians during their stay. Captain Serrado taught me that in their culture, warmrons aren’t limited to bondmates or lovers, or parents and children. And they don’t end when the child reaches the Rite of Ascension. They’re given freely, among family, friends, and lovers, from birth to death. If you’ll allow me, I would like to give one to you. I can tell you from experience that it’s a wonderful thing.”
“Experience? You allowed one of them to give you a warmron?”
Tal didn’t need her emotional sense to know how shocked Salomen was at that bit of news.
“Look into me.” She dropped her own blocks and let her mind replay the precious memories, unable to stop the smile as she did so. She had never envisioned herself sharing this with anyone, but felt certain that Salomen would keep it safe. Even so, she was careful to exclude her deepest emotion from the remembrance, guarding it out of long habit. None but Micah knew of it, and he would be both first and last.
“And I called you proud and unfeeling.” Salomen’s tone was self-castigating.
“We both made mistakes. But we’ve also taught each other a great deal in these last two days. Will you let me teach you this?”
Salomen searched her face for long moments, then nodded.
Tal felt a sudden sense of responsibility; Salomen had placed an enormous amount of trust in her. Such close physical contact would render not just their surface emotions but also some deeper emotions instantly clear. In a way, it was like dropping a front. But Salomen needed more than just words. She needed to know that someone understood what she felt, and Tal knew from experience that such understanding combined with physical closeness was the most comforting thing in the world.
Carefully, she wrapped the other woman in her arms, not surprised at the initial rigidity. But then Salomen melted into her and held on, absorbing the comfort with something approaching anxiety, as if she were afraid it would end before she could get her fill. Tal tightened her own hold in response.
“Why do we ever give this up?” Salomen asked, her voice thick with tears.
“Because it’s too close to a Sharing, I suppose. But this is one thing the Gaians do far better than we.”
“Oh, Fahla…” Salomen burrowed deeper into the warmron, clinging desperately, and her pain poured out.
Tal held her close, projecting her sympathy and understanding. Salomen’s emotion was all too familiar to her. It had been many cycles since her parents’ Return, but that kind of pain could never be forgotten.
“I think we’ve allowed fear to keep us from comfort,” she said quietly.
Salomen made a small sound, then loosened her hold and pushed herself back. But she did not release her arms from around Tal’s waist, and Tal did not correct a presumption which would have been inconceivable at any other time.
“You mean we withhold warmrons after the Rite of Ascension because of the emotional connection?”
Tal nodded, looking into the dark brown eyes so close to hers. Until last night she had never seen Salomen this close, and then she had been too consumed by her own shame to really observe her. Now she noticed the marks that cycles in the fields had left on Salomen’s face: the lines radiating outward from the corners of her eyes, the slight creases around her mouth. They complemented her cheekbone ridges and set off her dark eyes, which held a depth and seriousness that belied their owner’s age. Salomen’s life and character had marked her with beauty, but Tal could only observe it in silence. Speaking her thoughts would end this moment and raise all the walls that had just been dropped between them.
“For a culture built around emotions, we seem to have a surprising number of defenses against them,” she said. “We deny ourselves the comfort of physical touch for fear of revealing too much, and in the process forget how necessary that touch is. We accept it
as normal and desirable from birth until the Rite of Ascension, and then we’re expected to relinquish it, instantly and without regret. And we do, because we’re taught to revere the loss as a mark of adulthood. Loss disguised as gain. It took an alien culture to show me that no matter the disguise, it’s still a loss.”
“It is,” Salomen said in wonder. “And we are fools.”
“We are the result of generations of tradition. We’re only fools if we continue to follow it blindly, even after our eyes are opened.”
“My eyes feel wide open.” Salomen’s expression grew distant as she added, “I held my mother this way, just before her Return. I could feel her leaving. She was so fragile in my arms, and she smiled up at me with such joy. I thought then that she must be reliving her childhood, as they say we sometimes do when our minds leave our bodies. I couldn’t understand any other reason for the way she accepted the warmron, and I couldn’t stop myself from giving it to her. It felt selfish, and I was ashamed, but…she was so happy.”
“It’s not selfish to give a gift.” Tal reached up to brush away a tear that Salomen seemed not to have noticed. “Your mother felt that for what it was. You made her last moments joyous, and none of us could ask for more than that.”
“Do you really believe that?”
“What have we been doing in this room if not to make such a question unnecessary? Look for yourself.”
Tal watched as Salomen centered herself and extended her senses. Her powers and discipline were remarkable; after just two ninedays of training, there was a pronounced change in her abilities. It took less than ten pipticks before Tal felt the brush of another mind against hers, and she willingly opened her emotions to the skim.
Salomen smiled sadly. “Thank you. You have no idea what your belief means to me.” She shook her head, releasing her hold and stepping back. “Of course you do. Sometimes I forget how powerful you are. You have such control that I’m almost never aware of it when you skim me.”
“I didn’t need to skim you. Your emotions are stronger than you realize. To my mind, they’re very clear.”
“Have I not gained any strength in my fronting, then?”
“Of course you have. But—” Tal stopped, and Salomen looked at her curiously.
“But what?”
There was no option but to speak a truth which Tal herself was just realizing.
“I’m paying closer attention.”
“Because I’m your student.”
Tal shook her head. “Because I care.”
Salomen frowned slightly in concentration, and Tal knew when she had sensed what she was reaching for. The tiny frown changed to a lovely smile, transforming her face.
“You’re not what I took you to be. But perhaps I’m the one who hasn’t been paying attention. The Lancer I thought I knew would never have said something so kind, nor would she have apologized to a mere landholder.”
“The Lancer did not apologize to a landholder. Andira Shaldone Tal apologized to Salomen Opah.”
“Salomen Arrin Opah,” Salomen corrected.
“Of course. I’ve just never heard you use your father’s name.”
“Only on formal occasions. We producers seldom have need for all of our names, you know. Not like fancy warriors.”
Though the bait was temptingly dangled, Tal didn’t take it. “I think I have little need of all my names in this room. When we’re here, alone, will you call me Andira?”
“I’m honored.” Salomen narrowed her eyes. “Is this what any other instructor would say?”
Tal smiled as she recognized the words from their first night. “Not a single one I can think of. Are you accusing me of something?”
“Yes. I’m accusing you of being a friend.”
“Then I have no defense, and can only await the judgment.”
“No judgment,” Salomen said softly. “Just my thanks, and the offer of my friendship, whatever it’s worth.”
“It’s worth a great deal.” Tal knew this for a certainty. “I suspect you don’t offer it easily, and I’m honored by it.”
Salomen looked away, her arms held tightly over her chest. When she looked back again, her expression was nearly as open as her emotions. “Do you think…I mean, could we…?”
“Yes.” Tal opened her arms, and Salomen lost no time moving into her embrace.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
When they finally released each other, neither of them knew where to look. They had crossed a line, and everything after this was new territory.
Tal took refuge behind her teaching responsibilities. “You’ve done an admirable job of distracting me. But we’re still having a lesson.”
“And what did you have planned for tonight?” Salomen played along, and Tal could sense her relief at having something familiar to fall back on.
“Broadsensing.”
“What?”
“Opening your senses to the point where you can feel the surface emotions of everyone around you.”
Salomen frowned. “I already do that. I don’t like it. Can you teach me how to turn it off instead?”
“To learn one, you must fully understand the other.”
“I knew you’d say something like that. Remind me again why I chose you?”
CHAPTER 39
Caprice
Micah punched the feed button for his reader card and divested himself of his belt and weapons as it loaded the day’s news, dispatches, and reports. He was thoroughly enjoying being out of Blacksun, which sometimes felt like a pit of venomous zalrens. Point him toward an enemy or a clearly defined project, and he was a happy man. But Blacksun was full of shadows and half-truths and actions with multiple motives, and nothing was as clear-cut as he would have liked. He had never wanted to be involved in government, but he waded through those zalrens and more for Andira Tal. Besides being the daughter of his closest friends, she was a friend in her own right and had earned his loyalty ten times over.
He was grateful to her for bringing him on what he was increasingly considering a vacation. For once in her life, Tal was making things easy for him. Other than the morning runs, she didn’t move around much, and in the last nineday had never left the Opah holding. It made guarding her no more challenging than guarding a dokker. He chuckled at the thought, knowing that she would be outraged at the comparison.
The chuckle died in his throat as he scanned the first story on his card. He went back to the beginning and read the whole article carefully, then dropped his head back to glare at the ceiling. Fahla was a capricious goddess, damn her.
“Couldn’t you have let just one thing go right?” he demanded. “Why did it have to be her?”
CHAPTER 40
New runner
When Tal walked out the back door just before dawn, she found an unwelcome addition to her running group. Herot dawdled near her Guards, conspicuous both in his lack of uniform and his bearing. The Guards stood straight, watching him with bemusement. As the brother of their hostess, he had certain rights, but no one had the right to run with the Lancer unless she had specifically stated it. And she certainly had given them no such statement.
Rolling her eyes, Tal trotted down the porch stairs. She was only surprised that Herot had waited this long.
“Good morning,” she said.
The Guards saluted, while Herot flashed her a smile.
“Good morning, Lancer Tal.” His tone hinted at a friendship to which he had no claim, and she resisted the urge to dump him on his backside.
“I have little time,” she said. “Did you wish to speak with me about something?”
“Nothing in particular.” He glanced at the Guards, then at her with what was probably supposed to be a charming grin. “I don’t see you in the fields as often as I’d like, so I was hoping I might join you on your run.”
“Ah, then
you’re a runner.” She knew he wasn’t.
“No, but I used to be. I’ve been meaning to start again, and I thought now would be a good time. You set such a good example.”
The contempt rolling off her Guards was palpable. They would love nothing more than for her to put this presumptuous young man in his place.
Guards, she thought, this is my gift to you this morning.
“Then by all means, join us.” With no further words she set off, running easily at half speed. She had already stretched in her room, preferring to do it in privacy. Her Guards knew this and had completed their stretches as well. Tal was reasonably certain that Herot had not, and the pace she was setting would render him very sore if he tried to keep up with cold muscles.
He did try. He even made an attempt at conversation, but she put an end to that by announcing that she was nicely warmed up now and it was time to begin the run.
“Begin?” Herot gasped, and that was the last word he said for quite some time. Tal was now running at full speed, and the effort of keeping up rendered him incapable of speaking, which Tal—and all the Guards, she knew—considered a vast improvement.
She showed no mercy, her speed unchanging even as Herot’s distress became obvious. A part of her grudgingly respected him for pressing on. If he actually made it through their entire ten-length run, she might even revise her opinion of him.
Less than two lengths in, he stopped, tumbling onto his back in the grass and gasping for air.
Tal didn’t slow down. “Make sure he gets back to the house,” she said, and Gehrain motioned to Varsi, the newest member of the squad. Tal felt Varsi’s disgust at being left behind on what she no doubt considered garbage detail. There was also a sense of resignation, as if she had expected the assignment.
“Why Varsi?” she asked as they swept around a curve in the path.
Gehrain grunted. “Shekker beat me out of a quarter-moon’s salary at tiles.”
“Oh, she’s a young one. She’ll learn.” It was dangerous to play tiles with a superior officer for just that reason: the warrior code of honor had never excluded revenge for a gambling loss. While she didn’t engage in those behaviors—which made her a popular tile player—she also didn’t discourage it in her Guards. In a culture as rigid as theirs, a little sublimation went a long way toward relieving pressure.
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