by David Weber
“Why didn’t you say anything sooner?” Gadrial asked, baffled. Jathmar only looked at her, but, after a moment, Jasak answered for them.
“Because it’s important data, Gadrial,” he said. “Militarily important.” He sounded weary, frustrated. It came as a shock when Shaylar realized he felt that way because of the added pain it was causing them. When Gadrial still looked baffled, Jasak explained.
“If their Talents don’t work as well here, their military’s greatest advantages—including their Voice network—disappear. That places their soldiers at a serious disadvantage.”
“But why?” Gadrial wondered. “If their Talents don’t work as well here, would our Gifts not work as well on their homeworld?”
“You tell me,” Jasak said quietly. “With Halathyn gone, you’re the best theoretical magister we have. The team you’ve built at the Garth Showma Institute is as good as anything in Mythal. Surely there’s something you can do to figure out why something like this might be happening?”
Gadrial’s eyes reflected one moment of stark terror as the sudden responsibility for answering a question of that magnitude landed on her slim shoulders. Then the muscles in her jaw tightened and the look in her eyes shifted from fear to determination.
“All right,” she said, her voice hard with purpose. “We’ll do everything we can to figure it out.”
She frowned in thought for several seconds, then raked one hand through her hair with a grimace of what looked very much like irritation.
“It occurs to me,” she said slowly, “that we—theoretical magisters—have overlooked something very important. Something that was dismissed out of hand…and that I suddenly suspect shouldn’t have been. The last year I was at the Mythal Falls Academy, I ran across an entire file of reports while researching a major project for Halathyn. They’d been files by early portal explorers, Gifted ones, who reported magic didn’t work quite as well in pristine universes as it did here in Arcana. No one paid much attention to it, certainly not in academe. The analyses I read treated it almost as a joke. At best, a curiosity, but more likely just a mistake by people with poorly trained Gifts. And don’t look at me like that,” she added tartly when Jasak glared at her with a flash of irritation. “I don’t mean to belittle the soldiers who reported those observations, let alone suggest they were incompetent. We hadn’t seen anything significant, though, and what little was reported was a small enough difference to fall inside measurement error. Besides, I wasn’t the one who dismissed their reports!
“Remember, Jasak, for most of the last two centuries, the only people doing research in the field of multi-universe theoretical magic fields were shakira. To them, any non-Mythlan is an unreliable observer, particularly when it comes to something as genuinely complex as theoretical magic and the way portals interact with the magic field. The Garth Showma Institute’s the first non-Mythlan academy we’ve ever had that could match the Mythal Falls Academy.”
Jasak managed a sheepish smile, mollified by her explanation.
“Sorry about that, Gadrial. I’ve just heard snide remarks from shakira a shade too often, myself, belittling anyone in the Army. Any non-Mythlan in the Army, at any rate. My father’s position’s meant I’ve seen and heard more shakira than most other Andarans.”
Gadrial’s expression softened. “Of course, Jas. And I realize the stress you’re under, as well. I’m sorry I snapped at you.” Then she frowned in an abstracted way. “If there is something about the way universes interact that make certain things possible in some universes but not in others, we need to know what it is and why it operates.”
“Yes, we certainly do,” Jasak agreed. “Urgently.”
Gadrial’s eyes glinted, and she nodded.
“Yes, I can see that, too,” she said. “All right. I’ll pull together the best theoreticians we have and sic them onto this question as our top priority.”
“Thank you, Gadrial,” Jasak said quietly. Then he turned to Jathmar and Shaylar. “And thank you, both of you, for telling us this. I understand the risk you’ve both run, revealing that. I can’t even guarantee Arcana won’t use that information against Sharona, should we somehow fail to stop the shooting war we’ve started, out there.”
“You’ve been as honest with us as you can,” Jathmar said slowly. “I appreciate that. Our situation…” His mouth tightened. “I could try for the rest of my life to explain it and you still wouldn’t understand the depth of what we feel, cut off from everything and everyone, unable to reach our own families to tell them we’re safe. Unable to trust your superiors, your government, unable to trust even you as fully as we might if we’d met under other circumstances. And now this. If Shaylar and I have to lose a vital piece of who we are, if our souls have to be ripped apart, as well as our lives…we’d at least like to know why.”
Gadrial bit her lip. “I’ll do everything I can to find that answer for you,” she said in an unsteady voice.
“Thank you,” Jathmar said softly. “That’s all we can ask.”
Before anyone could say anything further, the slider glided down a low slope to street level and slowed even more. A moment later, they were pulling into a long, low building. It was far more graceful than most of the slider stations they’d passed through on their endless journey, and it was adorned with magnificent frescoes and glowing sculptures of light, but none of that hid the utilitarian aspects of its design. Shaylar saw the multiple rails of guidance crystals that made it easy to shunt slidercars from one track to another, and one entire wall of the building opened on what she thought of as the equivalent of the Trans Temporal Express’ switching yards. The broad pads used to recharge levitation accumulators stretched away from the covered passenger platforms in neat rows. There must have been at least a hundred—possibly twice that many, really—some of them empty, but most with sliders parked on them.
They’d reached Portalis Station.
Journey’s end. She fumbled for Jathmar’s hand and clutched it tightly. Physical contact improved her ability to read his emotions, and she could tell he wanted to put himself between her and any danger. Her hand trembled in his, and he turned and rested his brow against hers, trying desperately to restore the easy exchange they’d enjoyed since the day of their marriage, if only for just a moment or two. She could feel the love flowing from him, the fear for their future, the determination to protect her at all cost.
She lifted her face to look into his eyes and pressed a single, soft kiss to his lips, sending back all the love and reassurance she could. He even managed to smile. Then the slider sighed to a halt and a light blinked at the door leading to the station platform, letting passengers know the vehicle had settled to the same level as the platform. Jasak rose and extended a hand to Gadrial. She took it as she came gracefully to her feet and collected her equipment bag—that never went anywhere without her, although the arrival of Hundred Forhaylin and his men had at least given them plenty of other hands to carry their suitcases!
Jathmar pulled down a deep, deep breath, then he, too, rose and assisted Shaylar from her seat. Beyond the windows, the platform was a sea of people, all streaming from the dozens of other sliders, all greeting other people who waited on the platform. Shaylar could see happy reunions, almost hear the glad voices and laughter as families and friends were reunited, despite the sealed window.
Her chin quivered just once.
Then she followed silently as Jasak led the way out of the slider.
* * *
Sir Thankhar Olderhan met the travelers not as the Duke of Garth Showma, Governor of New Arcana, or any of the rest of his titles but as a father. He waved a barely recognizable crab-handed reply to the salutes hurriedly offered by Trooper Sendahli and Chief Sword Threbuch and wrapped his boy Jasak in a big bear hug. Jasak had outgrown his father by a good three inches sometime in his early teens, but the older man still managed to project power and strength.
Thankhar hadn’t thought about those intangibles in years, but if asked, he
wouldn’t have been surprised to learn that the reporter across the street using image capture spellware managed to capture clear beautifully framed shots of familial bliss. It also would not have surprised him to learn that later the editor would throw the recording crystal at the reporter’s head and send the young woman back out to get an image that could actually be used with the story headline: OLDERHAN HEIR RETURNS IN DISGRACE!
Instead he released his son from the hug and warmly greeted Gadrial, Shaylar, and Jathmar. The last two were family now, even if the Sharonans hadn’t quite internalized just how much Jasak had meant that when he explained the shardonai term to them. As for Gadrial…well, he’d read his son’s messages, and he had every hope she might be family one day too. He ushered them all into a palatial motic not so very much smaller than the slider they’d just left.
His staff coordinated with Forhaylin, Threbuch, and Sendahli to fill other vehicles, manage the luggage, and convey the rest of their gear the remainder of the way home.
* * *
Lady Sathmin Olderhan would have loved to have been waiting at the slider station for her oldest child’s return. But before the scheduled arrival, there’d been a spate of tiny disasters uniquely suited to the duchess’s touch. So she’d stayed behind expecting to follow after her husband in a second motic and still reach the station well before their son’s slider arrived.
She was still home when the Master of the Sword in crimson full dress uniform knocked at the private entry to the ducal apartments, however, and she stayed home to keep the Master there to deliver his summons privately. She only stepped out into public view when the staff told her the motic was nearly home.
The reporter stationed outside the gate snapped that shot just fine: Sathmin Olderhan, Duchess Garth Showma, outside the ducal apartments looking deeply worried as the motic bearing Jasak and his party crested the rise on its way home. A little fiddling with the lighting to make the expression deeply foreboding and the image was fit to run on page one.
* * *
“Welcome home Jasak!” Sathmin embraced her son in a hug just as fierce as the one he’d received from his father at the station. “It’s been far too long.”
“Thank you, Mother.” He hugged her back, holding her for several breaths, then inhaled deeply and stood back to do the introductions. “Mother, I believe you’ve met Magister Gadrial before. Maybe through your support of the Garth Showma Institute’s veteran scholarship fund? These are Jathmar Nargra and Shaylar Nargra-Kolmayr, my shardonai. They’ve had a very long trip and would rather be home, but—”
“Of course I understand.” Sathmin welcomed the group and ushered them all inside where a small army—another small army—of staff was on hand to make off with the luggage and carry it to the private suites assigned to each guest.
A quick word in her husband’s ear was enough to have him vanish into the comfortable office where she’d convinced the Master of the Sword to wait, then she turned back with a smile to try to calm her guests.
“Jasak’s written me, though not as much as I’d like.” She arched a brow at him, and her son chuckled in response.
It was an old joke between them that she always wanted more letters home though in reality she was usually quite satisfied with the ones he did send. Normally she had more than enough information to put her heart at ease while he and his troops worked on the edges of the explored universes.
“Anyway,” she waved a hand. “I do what every Andaran mother must, and spend hours and hours just pining away imagining horrible things—” She was already half way into the familiar joke before she suddenly realized it had lost a lot of its usual humor. She paused, then shook herself.
“I imagine that for about a half second,” she said composedly. “And then I remember Chief Sword Threbuch is there and I’m put entirely at ease. How is your family, Otwal? I saw your niece and her new baby just a few weeks ago. I hope everyone’s doing well?”
Otwal ducked his head in acknowledgement. “This was our first stop, Your Grace. I actually haven’t been to see the family yet.”
“Of course.” Sathmin pulled herself up straight. “Don’t let me keep you. I did prepare some places for you here if you’d like to stay with us, but I certainly don’t want to hold you to ceremony when there are people in Portalis you haven’t seen in ages.”
Otwal shook his head. “I wouldn’t mind another night of easy sleep before meeting the newest rug rat. And I’m a bachelor myself, so there’s no particular urgency to see the extended family.”
He didn’t add that reporting to the inquiry board would be easier to do from here than from his brother’s place on the outskirts of Portalis on the Arcana Prime side of the city. The chief sword had seen the duke leave, and she suspected he’d correctly interpreted what it meant when a staff member discretely called Jasak Olderhan away.
Sathmin didn’t ask after Otwal’s parents since she’d attended both their funerals several years past and, like many of the families with a long history of service in the Andaran Temporal Scouts, their ashes were scattered at the military memorial parade grounds maintained by the duke’s private purse.
The ashes of the troops fallen in this current conflict were due to begin arriving back home soon, and Sathmin expected to be attending all the services. The memorial grounds were a quiet, serene place that until relatively recently had seen only weekly or monthly use as the elder and infirm passed on at great age. She didn’t look forward to their new more frequent use or the changed tone that would come when services for old veterans were replaced by services for young men killed in combat.
They names of the dead and news of their loss had, of course, out paced the arrival of their ashes. And while Sathmin’s routine visits to the bereaved were no less necessary, in some cases they were significantly less welcome when the shock of loss turned to anger. Worse, sometimes the family chose to blame the Andaran Army—especially in the absence of the official dispatches which might have explained why the young men they’d loved had died—since there were no Sharonians at hand. And through that tenuous contact, the fury made its mad connections to direct itself at Andara’s highest commanders including the Duke of Garth Showma and thus also his wife, Sathmin.
“I understand, Otwal,” she said. “Then you’re welcome to stay with us, and I shall ask Cook to do her very best to tempt you to stay for just as many meals as you can possibly manage.” She turned to Trooper Jugthar Sendahli. “And a very fine welcome to you also Trooper. I’m sorry I’m not acquainted with your family, but the same offer applies to you. We can speed you or your way or host you with us in whatever way makes you feel most comfortable.”
Trooper Sendahli executed a deep bow that caused Gadrial’s brow to furrow. Sathmin recognized it, too, as the greeting of a lowest garthan to a high caste multhari shakira.
“Oh please my friend, none of that! I’m an Andaran woman. If you start treating me like a Mythlan I’m sure I’ll mess up all the ritual responses.” That wasn’t even remotely true, but it was the response she needed to make. Both the trooper and the magister relaxed immensely to hear it, and Jugthar Sendahli even gave her a tentative smile. Sathmin reached out and clasped his forearm, entirely giving herself away by using the garthan to garthan welcome between friends with a purely Andaran nod to complete the motion.
Gadrial’s laugh was music to Sathmin’s ears. She hadn’t totally failed the first introductions at least, and she ushered the party in for lunch after ascertaining that Trooper Sendahli didn’t mind staying to eat and that his family was, as she’d guessed, not housed anywhere near Portalis anyway. It would be here or the temporary barracks for him, and she had every intention that it would be here.
After the court took Sendahli’s testimony, he’d be assigned to a local garrison, and she also intended to ensure that any duties that might naturally be assigned to a visiting trooper were kept flexible enough to allow him a week or two off to visit his family on the far side of the continent.
&n
bsp; If army commitments wouldn’t allow that, she’d try to arrange for some of Jugthar Sendahli’s family to visit Garth Showma as her guests. Those invitations were easy enough to arrange between Andarans, but her interactions with garthan ancestry Mythlans were hit and miss. A wrongly phrased invitation could be too easily confused with a Mythlan shakira’s order for a garthan peasant to become a house servant, and Sathmin had no desire to inspire fear. A family recently escaped from Mythal might have any number of psychological wounds she didn’t want to open.
Sathmin danced through the polite social forms carefully. It wasn’t easy—not when Jasak held his shoulders lower than she’d ever seen and had aged more in the last year than he should have from a strict counting of calendar days. And the unease in Shaylar and Jathmar’s faces cried out to her heart, however bravely they tried to hide it…and not just because they were her son’s shardonai. But that, at least, she could do something about, she hoped.
She personally showed the Sharonians to the green suite and offered other rooms to Threbuch and Sendahli. For Gadrial Kelbryan there was a lady’s retiring room and a suite as well, but she expressed a desire to stay at her own home on the Institute grounds. Sathmin had half-expected that and tried not to push as she insisted the offer would remain open.
“If you’d ever like to stop by or perhaps visit for a bit, a tea, a meal, you’re always welcome.”
“Thank you.” Gadrial said. “That was a formal summons from the Commandery wasn’t it?”
Sathmin nodded, grim.
“I’d hoped we could all have one night’s rest first,” Gadrial’s tone was harsh, “but I suppose the military’s waited long enough for us to get here.” She paused. “I saw the red uniform through the doorway when Jasak went in after the duke. Is it an inquiry or a court-martial?”
“Formal summons to a court of inquiry. But—” Sathmin couldn’t leave the magister with false hope “—there will be a court-martial too. Thankhar will have to call for it if no one else does.”