by Lee, Sharon
“If you have another seizure,” the head tech said, “you will immediately return here.”
“Agreed,” he said, feeling considerably more awake. The injections from the kindly chair at work, no doubt.
“Very well,” the head med tech said, motioning his subordinate out of the room ahead of him. “We will call your kinsman to you, and bring a mobile chair. Please remain in the diagnostic chair until the mobile arrives. The room is awake and watching as well.”
And would certainly report another seizure or any other small infelicity, Daav thought. As it happened, he was content for the moment to rest where he sat.
“I understand,” he told the med tech, who gave him one more hard look before he, too, departed, leaving Daav alone.
Carefully, wishing neither to think, nor to invite yet another state that might cause a med tech even the smallest concern, he began to review the Scout's Rainbow.
In general, he had only to think of the Rainbow in order to achieve its benefits, as accustomed as they were to each other. Now, however, he deliberately slowed the process, visualizing each color particularly and fully before moving on to the next.
He was contemplating, with difficulty, the color blue when he heard the door cycle, and opened his eyes, fully expecting to see Er Thom.
But it was not Er Thom.
He straightened sharply in the chair, his heart jolting in what he could only hope was an unalarming and perfectly usual manner.
“Go away, Master Kestra,” he said, his voice harsh. “I don't want you.”
The Healer raised her hands, fingers spread wide.
“Peace,” she said softly. “I had only come to look, now that you are aware again.”
She paused, her eyes focused on some point just above his head, as Healers were wont to do.
“Well,” he snapped, “and what do you see?”
“I am not certain,” she answered, dreamily. "I note that I am neither blinded nor deafened in your presence, and that we both know the Rainbow is not potent enough to quiet you. Normally.
“I see your pattern, and I see your anguish, and I see the abyss that you carry within. Apparently, choice is available to you.”
She blinked, her face sharpening as she looked directly into his eyes.
“You are not brain-burned, if that soothes you, Daav.”
“If I continue to have seizures, it will scarcely matter why,” he pointed out. “If I continue to have seizures, the Guild will have my license, and rescind my right to fly.”
“And you still care about that,” the Healer murmured. “Deeply.”
Anger licked through him, and he took a deliberate breath.
“Master Kestra, are you through looking?”
She bowed, gently. “In fact, Korval, I am. In this, I am timely. Your brother approaches.”
With no further ado, she turned and walked toward the door, triggered it and stepped back, allowing Er Thom to enter first, in deference to his rank, and then the chair, in deference to the inept driver.
“Master Kestra,” Er Thom murmured, pausing to give her a bow. “Have you business with my brother?”
“Our business is done,” she said, inclining her head. “He does not accept my assistance. If it should come about that he requires it, please have no hesitation in sending for me.”
Er Thom bowed. “Our House is grateful.”
“Of course,” she said, an edge of irony on her voice. “In the meanwhile, by all means take him home. Hospitals magnify every ill and pain; it is better to heal among kin, especially of such wounds as his.”
She bowed then, and passed through the door. Er Thom turned to Daav and offered his arm.
“Daav.”
Anne's embrace was sisterly and enveloping. He leaned his head against her shoulder and for a heartbeat simply accepted the comfort that she offered, feeling her warmth and her true affection.
She held him lightly, as would a woman accustomed to handling wild things, or small children, and released him the instant he lifted his head.
“Er Thom will have told you that the boy's with us,” she said, in her lilting Terran. “He and his cousins have been having a fine time of it, running Mrs. Intassi ragged. I took it on myself to have some of your things brought up and a room made ready. You're to stay with us for as long as you want and wish to, understand me, laddie?”
“I understand,” he said. “Thank you, Anne.”
“No thanks,” she said severely, and gripped him by his shoulders, forcing him to look up into her face. “No blaming yourself, either—do you hear me? She knew what she was doing.”
“I think so, too,” he whispered, and cleared his throat, blinking his eyes to clear them.
“Now, you'll tell me what you need to make you comfortable—a bite of food, maybe?”
“No,” he said, striving not to sound as if he found the thought of food nauseating. “No, I—I thank you. I think that I wish . . . to be alone for a time.” He paused and added, “I'm very tired,” which had the felicity of being perfectly true.
She glanced over at Er Thom, who was leaning quietly against his desk. He straightened and came forward.
“Of course you are tired,” he murmured. “Come, let me show you to your rooms.”
Daav glanced back as he followed Er Thom out of the room and saw Anne watching him, a look of naked concern on her face.
“Would you like to stop by the nursery and speak with Val Con?” Er Thom asked, as they mounted the back staircase.
Val Con, with his green eyes, and his face so like hers . . .
He took a breath and shook his head.
“Not just—yet, please.”
There was a pause before Er Thom said, “Of course,” and sighed.
“You should know that Anne had told him that we had bad news from the port, and that his mother . . . would not be returning.” He shot Daav a sidewise glance.
“Val Con refused to believe Anne's information,” Daav said slowly, “and may have . . . lost his temper, just a little.”
“Mrs. Intassi reports a display of epic proportion,” Er Thom agreed. “She said that she was reminded vividly of yourself.”
Daav said nothing, and they walked down the hall in silence, turning the corner into the family wing.
“Here,” Er Thom said.
They had given him Sae Zar's old apartment; he recalled coming here once or twice as a child, with Er Thom. It was a gentle choice: on the family wing, yet removed enough from Anne and Er Thom's suite that he could be private in his comings and goings.
Daav put his hand against the plate, sighing as the house recognized him, and opened the door.
“Good evening, Brother,” he murmured and took one step forward.
“Daav.”
Nerves grating, the longing for solitude a thirst, yet he turned back to face his brother.
“Do you want me to stay with you?” Er Thom asked. He reached out to stroke Daav's cheek, a gesture that moved them both to tears. “Daav? I—I fear for you, alone.”
I fear for me, alone, as well, Daav thought, even as he shook his head.
“I swear that I will do nothing . . . irrecoverable tonight,” he said, and felt that, perhaps, he would be able to honor that oath. “And you—denubia, you are as exhausted as I am—more!—for it fell to you to do all that had to be done, for—for her, and for me. I—” He leaned forward and kissed Er Thom on his damp cheek.
“Go to your lifemate, darling. I—I will come to you tomorrow, and be as seemly as may be.”
Er Thom bit his lip. “I cannot imagine,” he said, his voice so low that Daav could scarcely hear him. “Beloved, I—” He moved, pilot fast; his embrace swift and fierce.
“Do as you must,” he whispered. “I love you, Daav.”
“I love you, Brother,” he answered, but Er Thom was already walking away, back to his lady, so Daav devoutly hoped, and there to take what rest and comfort that he might.
Deliberately, he stepped ac
ross the threshold; closed, and locked, the door.
The suite was much as he recalled it from childhood: agreeable rooms of good size, overlooking the topiary maze. He found his clothes in Sae Zar's closet; the books that had been occupying his attention on the table beside the double chair; his knives and wood pieces—the worktable itself!—set agreeably before the window; the computer in the office niche displaying a secure connection to Jelaza Kazone's network and to his private sub-net.
Restlessness took him to the bedroom, neat and not overly ornate. His brushes and his jewel box were disposed atop the bureau. Idly, for no better reason that he must be doing something or he would surely go mad, he opened the lid of the jewel box.
Green flashed at him, and a gaudy rainbow of jewel tones. Extending a finger, he touched the emerald drop—the very one she had been wearing when they—his mind veered, and for a long, long moment he wavered on the edge of the abyss.
I can, he thought, feeling the coldness in his own mind, control this. I have a choice—Master Kestra said as much, did she not?—I do not have to fall into a seizure.
I do not have to die.
It came to him, then, the fullness of the choice that he had been given. He did not have to die. Nor did he have to live.
He took a breath . . . another. A third, and he was able to look again into his jewel box, seeing the Jump pilot's cluster gaudily flaunt a ship's ransom, and a humbler sheen, like moonlight seen beside the sun.
He picked it up—the old silver puzzle ring that she had had from her grandmother, as a death-gift. His eyes filled as he raised it and slid it onto the smallest finger of his right hand.
“Aelliana,” he whispered, bending his head as his tears fell more rapidly. “Van'chela, how could you not know that I would have rather died a thousand times in your stead?”
I could not bear to lose you, Daav.
Her voice was so clear, with that wistful tone she adopted when stating something of extreme obviousness. He spun, lips parting for a reply, before he remembered that he would never see, nor hear her again . . .
Horror ripped through him and he saw it all again: her leap, the pellets striking; the stink of blood, the coldness of extinction . . .
He dropped to his knees, unable to stand, put his hands over his face and sobbed; long, wracking sobs torn from the depths of him, until he crumbled facedown on the rug, exhausted; weeping silently now, and, finally, weeping no more.
When he felt he was strong enough to stand, he climbed to his feet, and, grimacing at himself in the mirror, fetched out his robe and strode into the 'fresher, emerging some time later clean, exhausted, and by no means interested in sleep.
He went out into the main room, pausing in the corner kitchen to pour himself a cup of cold water. Kneeling by the table, he sipped while sorting through his books, hoping to find something that might hold his interest.
There was a slight sound, as of a cat scratching at a door unfairly closed against it.
Daav frowned. Presently, there were no house cats at Trealla Fantrol, though there were several who worked the grounds.
The sound came again—a scratching, no doubt—and, yes, at the door.
He rose and crossed the room; touched the plate and opened the door.
A cannonball took his legs out from under him. He snatched, caught, and rolled until he stopped, on his back, halfway to the window, his small son clutched to his breast.
Across the room, the door closed, for lack of instructions to the contrary.
“Father!” Val Con struggled; Daav held him with one arm and stroked his back with the other.
“Softly, my child, I am not at the port.”
“Father, you were gone so long . . . ” That was said more seemly, excepting only that the boy's voice shook so.
“It was unavoidable,” he said. “I never meant to distress you, denubia.” He cleared his throat.
“I cannot help but note that it is well beyond that time when you should have been in bed. Did Mrs. Intassi bring you?”
That seemed unlikely. On the other hand, it also seemed unlikely that a small child, no matter how clever, could have slipped away from Mrs. Intassi, who was wise in the ways of childhood stealth and knew all the faces of deceit.
“Mrs. Intassi said I had to wait until tomorrow to see you,” Val Con said. “But I had to see you now. Nova went to talk to Mrs. Intassi. Shan showed me how to unlock the door. We were supposed to be in bed.”
The recounting of successful mischief was soothing; the child was beginning to relax, his muscles loosening under Daav's fingers. He lifted the restraining arm away. Val Con sat up, straddling Daav's chest, and looked down into his face, green eyes foggy.
That was a knife to the gut: Just so did his mother's eyes fog, with worry or—so seldom since they had embraced each other—with fear. Daav took a hard breath—and another as his son leaned forward and put one small hand on each cheek.
“Aunt Anne said that Mother wasn't coming home,” he said huskily. “That's wrong, isn't it, Father? Mother lifted, but she'll come home.”
Oh, gods. He raised his hand and stroked the back of his fingers along the boy's silken cheek.
“Aunt Anne is, unfortunately, correct,” he whispered, feeling tears slip down his cheeks. “Your mother has—has died, Val Con.”
The boy stared at him, foggy eyes full. “Like Relchin?” he asked.
The orange-and-white cat had died in his sleep last year, full of years and valor. If only Aelliana had been granted that same grace.
“Yes,” Daav told his son. “Like Relchin.”
A shudder ran through the thin body and Val Con began, silently, to cry. Daav caught him in both arms and sat up, cradling his child—Aelliana's child, their child—against his breast.
He rocked and put his cheek against the boy's soft hair, letting him weep, and weeping himself, in earnest.
Gradually, the boy's sobs lessened, and Daav found his tears less, as well.
“You won't die, will you, Father?” the boy's voice was blurry.
Daav sighed and cuddled him close. “Not for so long as I may,” he whispered. “I promise.”
Val Con sighed, apparently satisfied; and lay limp and exhausted. Daav kissed a damp cheek, and closed his eyes.
The gunman had been after him, Er Thom had said. Daav shivered and held his son closer. Was he a danger, then, to all his kin? Dare he never again walk on the port with his brother, his niece—
His son?
He needed—he needed to think. Gods, he needed to talk this over with Aelliana to—
Not Aelliana, he thought carefully. You will never speak with Aelliana again.
It seared, that thought, but the abyss did not open at his feet.
Of course not. He had promised his son that he would try to live.
Cradling Val Con against him, he rose, and carried him into the bedroom. He settled the boy snug under the covers, then lay down next to him, one arm over the small body. He closed his eyes, not expecting to sleep.
The next thing he knew, it was morning.
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Contents
Liaden 11 - Mouse and Dragon
Chapter Thirty-Nine
I have today received Korval's Ring from the hand of Petrella, Thodelm yos'Galan, who had it from the hand of Korval Herself as she lay dying.
My first duty as Korval must be Balance with those who have deprived the clan of Chi yos'Phelium, beloved parent and delm; as well as Sae Zar yos'Galan, gentle cousin, a'thodelm, master trader. There is also Petrella yos'Galan, who I fear has taken her death-wound.
Sae Zar fell while defending his delm. All honor to him.
Chi yos'Phelium died of a second treachery and in dying gave nourishment to her sister, my aunt, who alone of the three was able to win back to home.
The name of the world which has fashioned these losses for Korval is Ganjir, RP-7026-541-773, Tipra Sector, First Quadrant.
This shall be Korval's Balance: As of
this hour, the ships of Korval and of Korval's allies do not stop at Ganjir. Korval goods do not go there; Korval cantra finds no investment there. And these conditions shall remain in force, though Ganjir starves for want of us.
. . . I note that my mother is still dead.
—Daav yos'Phelium
Eighty-Fifth Delm of Korval
Entry in the Delm's Diary for Finyal Eighthday
in the first Relumma of the Year Named Saro
“I thank you for your generosity to my lifemate. With her death, your gift returns to you.” Daav extended the Jump pilot's ring.
Jon dea'Cort hardly spared a glance for it; his attention was on Daav's face.
“How are you, child?” he asked, his voice more than normally gruff.
“Alive,” Daav answered, the ring still extended.
“The pilot's ideal, right enough,” the elder Scout acknowledged, and pressed his lips tight.
“Jon,” Daav said, perhaps too patiently, “take the ring.”
The elder pilot sighed, and finally did look down at the thing, sparkling like a galaxy against Daav's palm. Slowly, he raised a hand and took the ring away. He clenched his fingers, hiding the glitter and the promise of it, and looked back to Daav, his eyes swimming.
“Don't forget your comrades, Captain. We're here when you need us.”
“I know,” Daav whispered, swallowing against rising tears. “Thank you, Jon.”
“No thanks needed between comrades; you know that.”
“I do, and yet—she would have had it so.”
The other man bowed his head. “That she would have.” He cleared his throat. “Will you be working today?”
He felt equally horrified and tempted—a sensation that had become wearingly familiar. Binjali's was a safe place—for him and, later, for Aelliana. They had met right here in the garage; had learned to trust, and to love, each other . . .
“Not just today,” he managed, around the ache in his chest. “I do not by any means forget my comrades, Master. I—certainly, I will have a shift before the next relumma is done.”
Jon inclined his head. “As you will.”
As he willed. Daav swallowed against the terrible noise that was not laughter, and inclined his head in turn.