by Sharon Lee
That pleased him, but it made his mother impatient.
“We are here,” she said, “to speak with Korval.”
Aunt Miri considered her.
“Right,” she said, still in Terran. “You are. Well, then, I guess I better toe the line. Just a sec while I get it set up.”
She closed her eyes, took a deep breath and seemed somehow to grow taller where she sat. When she opened her eyes, she seemed looking down at Mother. Syl Vor felt a flutter in his stomach, and swallowed hard.
Aunt Miri—except she wasn’t Aunt Miri now—now she was Delm Korval—held up her hand, where the Ring glittered on her thumb.
“Korval Sees,” she said, in the High Tongue in the mode of delm to clanmember—“Nova yos’Galan and Syl Vor yos’Galan. Who will speak first?”
“Korval,” Mother said, as clanmember to delm, “I will speak first, and also for my heir, who is a minor child, and untutored in the forms.”
“Korval will make allowance for one who yet learns. Speak, Nova yos’Galan.”
Mother rose and bowed, graceful and composed.
“Korval, I bring before the delm’s consideration a single solution which answers two problems.
“The first problem is one of Surebleak, and the Office of the Boss. In short, the subordinate Bosses and the people of the streets mistrust the municipal school, seeing it as a venue in which their children will be at high risk. This perception has been made more poignant by the recent incidents of sabotage against the school building, which has put construction back.” She paused.
The delm inclined her head, lamplight striking copper glints from her hair.
“And the second problem?”
“Briefly, Korval, the clan’s child Syl Vor yos’Galan finds himself oft-times with idle hands. He has lately been accustomed to a stringent routine of study and exercise, and to the company of his elder cousins. To me, to his aunt my sister Anthora, and to several of my household he has expressed a desire to be of use.”
She paused again, but the delm said nothing.
“The proposed solution now placed before the delm is that Syl Vor yos’Galan remove to my household in the city, to be enrolled in the local school, now, and the consolidated school when it is completed, and ready to receive students.”
“Korval has heard Nova yos’Galan,” the delm said. “Stand forward, Syl Vor yos’Galan.”
Obediently, he stood, though he felt himself shivering with shock. To address the delm? His mother had said—
“A few questions only, Child Syl Vor,” the delm said. “You may without offense or error speak as a child of the House to an elder.”
“Yes, Aunt—Yes.” His voice was shivering, too, and that, Syl Vor thought, would never do. Padi would laugh to hear him; and Quin would ask, “are you are quite all right, Syl Vor?”
He took a careful breath, imagining the air deep and heavy, spreading out inside him, anchoring his feet to the floor, stiffening his soft knees, straightening his back. Another breath, and he met the delm’s cool grey eyes. He lifted his chin, for surely Korval must dislike meeching manners quite as much as Grand-aunt Kareen.
“Are you afraid, Child Syl Vor?” asked the delm.
“I am not afraid, ma’am,” he answered firmly, which was…mostly true.
“Excellent. You have nothing to fear from your delm. When you speak to the delm, you speak to Korval Entire—which is nothing more frightening than speaking with your kin. Or with yourself.”
Syl Vor bowed as one grateful for instruction, since the delm had paused and he could think of nothing to say.
“I wonder,” the delm said then, “this solution—is it of your crafting?”
“No, ma’am. Mike Golden suggested it—as a way that I might be of use. We were having cookies and—” He paused, conscious that he was perhaps chattering.
“Pardon me, ma’am. Do you know Mike Golden?”
“We met briefly,” the delm said, catching his gaze with hers. “What do you think of him?”
That was something of a stumper. Fortunately, one was allowed to take a moment to compose one’s thoughts upon receipt of such a question. His first inclination, to say that he very much liked Mike Golden, was of course ineligible. The delm wished to know what he thought, not what he felt.
“I think Mike Golden is…an honest man,” he said, chewing his lip and staring hard at the rug. “I think that he wants to help my mother Boss Nova. I think that he wants the school to succeed. I think he wants Surebleak to succeed. I think he knows his solution is dangerous, a little. But not too dangerous to attempt.” He looked up and met the delm’s eyes.
“That is what I think of Mike Golden,” he told her, and she inclined her head, indicating that she had heard.
“Mike Golden thinks like a delm. Child Syl Vor.”
“Ma’am?”
“What do you think of this solving of Mr. Golden’s?”
“I think it very neat.”
“Ah. And the danger?”
Syl Vor blinked. “I have been accustomed, when we were at the Rock, to think that we might at any time be in terrible danger. If I join in this solving…” Horrifyingly, his eyes filled with tears, and his voice wobbled. He cleared his throat.
“If I join this solving,” he said, as firmly as he could; “it will be only myself that I must guard.”
There was a small silence before the delm spoke once more.
“Korval has heard,” she said, nearly as quiet as Uncle Ren Zel. “Please sit, Child Syl Vor. Nova yos’Galan.”
Mother came out of her chair even as he found his.
“Korval?”
“The delm accepts Michael Golden’s solving on behalf of the clan’s precious child Syl Vor. You will oversee the necessary arrangements.”
Mother bowed.
“Korval, I shall.”
“Yes.” The delm—no, it was Aunt Miri now—rose.
“Now,” she said in brisk Terran. “I hope you two are hungry, because Mrs. ana’Tak has it in her head to serve up a big dinner in honor of Lady Nova being to house. You’ll both to sleep here tonight, under Tree.” She grinned at Syl Vor. “Tomorrow’s soon enough to start bein’ of use.”
* * *
The scent of tea tickled his nose, teasing him into wakefulness. Not the flower-and-spice blend that was the common drink of the House, but the acrid, slightly burnt smell of the brew he had learnt to drink aboard Momma Liberty. If Jasin had brought tea, he was either late, or it was their off-shift, and she meant him to be of use to her. He tried to remember the schedule, but found that he did not recall the ship-day, nor what had been his shift just passed, or—
Of a sudden, his heart was pounding; he felt damp with panic, and wrenched his eyes open.
But, this was not the cabin he shared with Jasin! Almost he could believe himself in a tent up on the mountain, new-waked by a cousin to take his turn at the smudge pots used to chase the late frost, and save the budding grapes. If he turned his head—yes! There was a fire, and a figure silhouetted beside it, head draped against the chill perhaps with a shawl, noble nose and decided chin plainly visible. The figure raised what must surely be a mug, held for warmth between both hands, and sipped.
“Thawlana,” he breathed, though he knew—gods, did he not!—that it could not be.
The shawled head turned toward him.
“I will stand so for you, Child of the Other, if that is your true desire.”
The words were Liaden, though the mode was uncertain, proof, had he needed such, that the silhouette was not his grandmother. She had been precise in matters of diction, despite a preference for the familiar modes over those more formal.
“Forgive me,” he said, wishing to speak aloud, and horrified to hear his voice no more than a grating whisper. “I meant no offense.”
“Nor was I offended. Would you like tea, child?”
Wake up, Rys, or I’ll dump this tea over your head!
He moved his head, as if he might shake
Jasin’s voice from memory.
“Tea,” he said to the one by the fire, “would be most welcome.”
- - - - -
He held his mug in his off-hand, since his prime was strapped to a board. The old woman, shawl cast back now to reveal hair long and silvered, had helped him sit, and propped his back with pillows. That done, she settled beside him, and sipped, waiting until he had done the same.
“My name is Silain,” she said. “You may address me thus, or as luthia, which is my function.”
“My name is Rys…”
“Rys.” Silain-luthia inclined her head. “Do you speak Terran?”
“I do,” he said in that language. He sipped again, the primitive brew imparting a comfort beyond mere warmth. “Thank you for the tea, and—” he glanced at the splinted hand—“for your care.”
“Tea is a simple comfort, of which there are too few in life. My care—is rough-and-ready. Your hand will require arts beyond mine, if it is heal into usefulness, and I fear your left leg will never fully hold your weight. The ribs are already nearly knitted, and the internal bleeding is staunched.” She sipped her tea, and for lack of any answer to this litany of disaster and faint hope, he did the same.
“You have enemies, in the city?” She asked.
Enemies?
Again, his heart slammed into overaction, and he moaned in sudden fear—Of course, he had enemies! Dire enemies who would stop at nothing to destroy him, and yet—
Surely, had he such enemies, he would know them, their faces, their clans? His fear produced nothing, other than a tremor that spilt his tea, and the memory of mighty wings…
“The Dragon,” he whispered, tears starting. He closed his eyes, but they only ran faster. “Gods, the Dragon will destroy me. You must not—”
Terror overcame him, and he cowered against the pillow, sobbing in earnest now, so lost to shame that he did not resist when Silain-luthia gathered him to her, but only hid his face gratefully against her neck.
Chapter Thirteen
When they had been sheltering inside the Rock, Grand-aunt Kareen had insisted that they eat formally once a day.
“There is no reason to descend into barbarism, because we are in exile,” she had said, and Padi had rolled her eyes, and Quin had looked very carefully at nothing, and Grandfather Luken had murmured, “Quite right.”
For himself, Syl Vor thought that barbarism sounded very unpleasant, though he didn’t understand, quite, how knowing when to use his tongs rather than his spoon would prevent a descent into anywhere.
Tonight, though, he had been glad of Grand-aunt’s insistence, and gladder still that he had what Ms. ker’Eklis said was a “retentive memory.” He had, he thought, acquitted himself well at table, seated as an equal with his elders, between Mother and Aunt Anthora.
When prime meal was done, Mother had excused them, and they had gone together to the nursery to decide with Mrs. pel’Esla what he should have with him in the city.
As they would be leaving again for Mother’s house early on the morrow, most of what was chosen would follow later. Syl Vor packed enough clothes for three days into his backpack, then sat on the bed with Eztina across his knees, waiting for his mother.
When they had left Trealla Fantrol, everything had been so strange—fleeing, as they had to believe, only a single step ahead of Korval’s enemies, that he hardly had time to understand that he was leaving all of his things, and every familiarity behind. And at the Rock, everything had been…different, and there had been so much to learn that he hadn’t really missed his bed, or his favorite red pillow. When they were brought back under Tree, and he found those things in the nursery waiting for him, he had felt…as if they had been kindly left for his comfort by a cousin who no longer had need of them.
“We do not leave this night, Syl Vor-son,” his mother said from the entrance to his small room. “You have time to wash your face, and to nap for an hour.”
He looked up at her and smiled. “Is Mike Golden teaching you jokes?” he asked.
Her eyebrows twitched, then her own pale smile appeared.
“In truth, I think that was rather based on your Uncle Shan. Mr. Golden’s jokes largely yet elude me. Perhaps you will do me the kindness, when we are settled in the city, to hint me into the proper mode.”
“I will do my best,” he said seriously. “But you must know that Padi calls me Sober Syl Vor.”
His mother sighed and came over to sit next to him on the bed. Eztina raised her head and yawned, which was rude, but cats, Syl Vor noticed, were never scolded for being rude.
Mother extended her hand and stroked Eztina between the ears.
“My brothers treated me similarly,” she said, her eyes on Eztina, who had begun to purr. “There is a value in humor, and it is the natural wish of kin, that we share in what delights them.”
“Yes,” he said. His mother laughed softly.
“I find myself exhausted by the exigencies of the day, and I daresay you are the same. Shall we meet in the small parlor for breakfast, and plan our removal?”
“Yes, ma’am.” He hesitated, looking down at Eztina, feeling her deep purr more than hearing it. “Mother?”
“Yes, my child?”
“May Eztina come with us? Down into the city?”
She frowned, and he braced himself for “no.” Then the frown faded.
“I will consult with Jeeves,” she said; “before I seek my bed this evening. We will discuss it over breakfast.”
Syl Vor smiled. “Thank you, Mother.”
“You are welcome. Now!”
She rose. Hastily, he shifted Eztina off his knee and onto the bed so that he could rise also.
His mother cupped his face and looked down into his eyes.
“I had almost forgotten to say how very well you did at prime meal this evening, and in your discussion, earlier, with the delm. You delight, Syl Vor-son; I value you.”
He blinked against tears, and swallowed hard.
“Thank you, Mother,” he said, his voice foolishly shaking.
She bent and kissed his forehead, then released him with a stroke along the top of his head, as if he were Eztina.
“Now, sir—it is time and past for you to seek your bed. Chiat’a bei kruzon, my son.”
“Chiat’a bei kruzon, Mother.”
* * *
Kezzi sat by Silain’s hearth, watching the gadje sleep. It was sleep, and not coma; his face was cool to the touch, and his heartbeat strong and steady.
Also, the gadje had a name now, given in truth to the luthia, and thus he became something more than a hurt soul in need of the luthia’s blessing.
Now, he was Rys, weighted with all that the name recalled. It would seem, from what Silain had said to Kezzi, so that she might reassure him, if he woke, that the name recalled fear, and sadness. Death, Silain said, moving her hand as if she were turning over a fortune-card, and betrayal.
It gave one to wonder, then, Kezzi thought, sitting by the bed with Malda’s head on her knee, what the luthia’s purpose had been, to withhold passage into the World Unseen, where there was no fear or pain.
But that question, Silain would not answer.
The side of her face tingled, almost as if Alosha had looked on her, but the headman was not near.
Kezzi raised her head and met the—met the eyes of Rys, who lay under the luthia’s care.
“There are no dragons,” she said in the language of the gadje, which was what Silain had told her to say, should he wake. “We do not allow them here.”
He smiled, slowly, as if the assurance amused rather than soothed.
“That is well,” he said, his voice gritty and weak.
“Yes,” she agreed, and touched her shoulder with the tips of her fingers.
“I am Kezzi,” she said—and that, too, the luthia had commanded, that it was her true-name she should give him. She looked down and placed her hand on the sleeping dog’s head. “This is Malda.”
“I am plea
sed to meet you, Kezzi—and Malda. I am Rys.”
“I am pleased to meet you, Rys,” Kezzi replied, which was polite, since it was what he had said himself, though it was not what one of the Bedel would say. It might, though, she thought, be true in that precise way that the Bedel kept truth within the kompani. Kezzi frowned. That thought—that thought wanted dreaming upon. It was the order of the universe, that there were the Bedel in their kompanis, and then Those Others, the gadje, who were not of the Bedel. Could a man be at the same time not of the Bedel, but of the kompani?
“Is that a frown, Kezzi?” Rys asked weakly. “Does my conversation dismay you?”
She looked to him, and saw a smile, faint, but willing, as if he were in truth one of her elder brothers, in a teasing mood.
“I have thought a thought,” she told him, as she would one of those brothers, for how else might she make answer to one who had her true name—and Malda’s, too? “And it shakes what I know in my heart.”
“Ah,” he said seriously. “I have myself had such thoughts, on occasion.”
She considered him and before she had properly considered, posed him a question. “Do you listen to your heart or your thought?”
He looked startled, black eyes widening inside the mask of bruises, and then frowned, himself.
“I think that it is a case,” he said slowly, “of bringing one’s heart and one’s thoughts into—into balance.” He winced then, as if his own words had nipped him. “Silain is your grandmother, is she not?” he asked.
“Silain is the grandmother,” Kezzi corrected.
“Yes. You are better to ask her such questions, Kezzi, than a man…” His voice drifted into nothing, and Kezzi leaned closer, in order to observe his eyes, and placed her hand over his wrist, her fingers finding the heart-point.
He turned his head toward her and smiled, wanly.
“You are a gentle nurse.”
His pupils were not dilated, and his pulse was steady. She sat back, recalling the other thing Silain had told her.