by Katy Winter
Sarehl had, in effect, grown up as an only child, helping to raise the younger ones from an early age. He thought now of the coming months. Melas sat sewing, coloured threads spread carefully around her. She rocked gently.
"Mam," said Sarehl quietly. Melas looked up briefly with a smile.
"Yes, Sar?"
"Mam, am I to stand for Choice this cycle?" Melas looked up a second time, to survey her son thoughtfully. She nodded.
"Yes, son, you're old enough." He blushed and turned his head to one side. "Did you have someone in mind?"
"Alicia, Mam," he replied, his colour deepening.
"I thought so. She's a likable girl, that one," approved Melas, shaking the garment she worked on. "And does she choose you, son?"
Looking very young and embarrassed, Sarehl nodded. Melas stared at the bright, dark eyes and the hesitant smile, and held out her hand instinctively. Sarehl came up the step and crouched down beside her so she could run a hand through his hair as she'd always done with the children, saying softly,
"Your father would be so proud of you, son." She felt a quiver and added, "You remember your Da, Sar, don't you?"
"Yes, Mam, I do," came the reply.
"That pleases me, son," whispered Melas. "We share him. There's so much of him in you. That means much to me." Sarehl clasped one of his mother's hands and held it to his cheek.
Sarehl was bought a house on the other side of the city. It was a gift from Chlorim for the mating that would result from Choice, an event that came closer with every passing week.
~~~
Very early spring brought the first participants to the Choice festival, even though Choice was still weeks away. Barges disgorged travellers from all over Samar and beyond, regularly, from day to day. With the waterways becoming so congested, there were constant shouts, good-natured threats and laughter floating up from the canals, even late into the night.
Myme Chlo's eighth cycle day came and went. The scholar gave her a brooch in the shape of what she thought was a canas. She thanked him and always wore it. What both Myme Chlo and her brothers did notice, some time before Myme Chlo's cycle day, was the change in their mother. She started to wear her hair in a knot on the top of her head, from which black ringlets fell in profusion; her hemlines now showed elegantly turned ankles and the style of her blouses and skirts subtly altered. Her nails were painted. The colour she now wore round her eyes accentuated the depth of violet and enhanced already huge and luminous eyes. Her cheeks were pinker and her lips ruddier. Sashes and belts highlighted a slender waist, while scarves over the shoulders and jewellery on throat and ears were quite unexpected.
Melas was willowy and graceful. Chlorim looked on from the distance with approval in his dark eyes - he'd often wished his brother's singularly lovely mate would be attracted to another man. Her children stared at her in fascinated surprise, but she said nothing, though she wasn't at home as often anymore.
Sarehl saw the perplexed looks on the young faces, but he said nothing either. He saw the tall, broad-shouldered man, with flame red hair and beard, who was his mother's constant companion, but he kept his distance and just watched. He'd no idea how his mother met this merchant, but, when he saw Melas smile up at the man, he'd no wish to interfere.
Since the merchant stayed at a local inn, it seemed he might be merely a transient, accidentally here for Choice, so Sarehl watched them one afternoon as they roamed around the market place nearest to Alfar's home. It was then he saw the merchant look down into his mother's eyes in such a way Sarehl had no doubts at all. Melas would stand at Choice. Sarehl did nothing for some time, then, one morning, he made a call at the scholar's house. The scholar's attitude was one of interest but no concern. He sent the youth away completely reassured about his mother, but once the young man left, the scholar looked anything but comfortable. He snapped shut his book and went out abruptly.
~~~
As Choice came closer, Myme Chlo lost her usual concentration. It was her habit when she was at the scholar's, to sit with her chin in her hand while she thought what she'd do next. She was in such a characteristic pose today, her pen lying idle on a blank sheet.
The scholar looked up from the scroll he perused, to glance briefly at the small figure, and again felt what an impossible task tutoring this child was. He'd only once entered her mind without her knowledge and that was to implant a block against random broadcasting, not that she did this of late. Myme Chlo's progress was startling. Everything he taught her, she effortlessly retained. The girl was insatiably curious and thirsted to know more.
The scholar spent much time teaching her mind control. He took her beyond her immediate self several times and made her look back at herself in an objective and detached way. She told Bethel about it and taught him as she was shown, but no one else knew. The scholar gently coaxed her to translate into whatever form he suggested, and, her eyes wide with fright, she trusted the scholar and followed him. She became smaller or larger, narrower or wider; whichever shape the scholar took, so did she.
She finally lost her fear when she learned that provided she always knew where she'd been and then where she wanted to be exactly, she could return to herself. It was a form of mental discipline and clarity of thought the scholar insisted she study. She learned her rules of translation by heart and never forgot them; she never forgot her mental disciplines either and passed them on to Bethel who was fascinated. The scholar noticed the girl never repeated a mistake. She always asked him if she was unsure of anything she was asked to learn.
The scholar snapped a pen he'd been holding and Myme Chlo looked up. She watched the scholar give a long sigh, then a prolonged yawn.
"Are you tired, Scholar?" she asked her mentor solicitously.
"No more than usual, little one. I see," the scholar continued, looking significantly at the blank sheet in front of her, "that your calligraphy of Orkaic symbols has come to a lamentable halt."
"I was thinking."
"Anything interesting?" asked the scholar, casually puffing on his pipe and crossing his long legs comfortably.
"It's Mam."
"What about her?"
Myme Chlo stood, stretching first one leg then the other, before saying uncertainly, "I think she's going to stand at Choice." The small head was slightly tilted in thought. The scholar tactfully refrained from immediate comment. "Sar says she's already mated, Scholar - do you think she should mate again, as she did with Da?"
"It's no business of mine, little one," the scholar said quietly, looking calmly across at the little girl. She blushed, but held her ground.
"It's mine," she said, stubbornly. "And you're part of my family, Sar and Mam both say that." Their eyes met, the scholar's impossibly blue and Myme Chlo's velvety violet.
"And because of that it should be my business, is that what you're saying, child?" Myme Chlo's eyes fell first. "What are you trying to say, little one?"
"I'm afraid for us all," she said, so quietly the scholar looked at her with raised eyebrows.
The small voice sounded strangely mature and haunted, and the scholar wasn't one to ignore this child's instincts or his sudden shiver of premonition. Myme Chlo wasn't looking at him.
"Have you met Bruno?" he asked gently. She nodded. "Was he kind to you?" The head nodded again. "Then why are you anxious?" There was a long silence. "Myme Chlo?"
"Does he love Mam?"
The scholar held out his hand. When the little girl went straight to him he pulled her on to his lap, to lightly caress the mop of dark curls as he responded quietly, "How can I know that, little one?" She twisted her fingers together.
"I can't explain," she said, almost tearfully.
"Try, little one." Myme Chlo sat still for a long time, then she sighed wearily.
"Scholar, I sense something I don't understand. I know Mam cares for Bruno. I'm sure Sar's right when he says Bruno feels the same way; Bethel says he does. But I can't help wondering why he's just so suddenly come here."
&nb
sp; "Chance is a strange thing," murmured the scholar. He didn't add, that in this instance, chance had little to do with Bruno's appearance.
"It's not chance," said a small voice positively. The scholar stared contemplatively at the small girl curled up in his lap. His eyes frowned. He deliberately changed the subject.
"Ease your mind, little one," he suggested. "Do you mind your mother mating again?" Myme Chlo drew in her breath.
"I never knew our father Alfar, so I don't know what a father will be like. Sar's been a father to us as long as any of us can remember. He has Alicia now too."
It was the scholar's turn to breathe deeply as he thought of her possible progenitor. He sought for words and found none, but Myme Chlo didn't seem to notice as she went on.
"Are fathers nice to have?"
"Mine certainly was," commented the scholar.
"Bethel says we must accept Bruno for Mam's sake."
"Then Bethel's a sensible boy," was the scholar's response.
"You don't think I should be afraid?"
"I don't think either Bruno or his son will harm you." The scholar reinforced this reassurance in her mind.
"Have you met Lian, Scholar?"
"I've only seen him with his father, at a distance." The scholar felt this small lie was admissible.
"What do you think of him?" asked the small inquisitor. The scholar turned his head to stare beyond Myme Chlo.
"From what I have seen and heard, he seems a quietly unobtrusive and pleasant boy. How old is he?"
"A bit younger than Sar."
"Is he standing for Choice?" Myme Chlo got down from the scholar's knees and wandered pensively over to the window.
"I talk with Lian, scholar, and I like him very much. He tells me he doesn't wish to stand. I don't ever want to either."
"Then you probably won't," said the scholar equably.
"Were you - did you -?" The small voice broke off in confusion. The scholar carefully bent his head to hide a lurking smile.
"Laras and I've chosen to be together for the moment, yes."
"But not at Choice?"
"No."
"And not for ever?" Big violet eyes stared up at the scholar.
"No," was the firm response.
The scholar rose and began to roll up the scroll he'd been perusing, tying it carefully before placing it at the back of a pile of others. He was surprised to feel a tug on his coat. When he looked round and down, startled, he was concerned to see the girl's eyes full of tears.
"I don't wish to choose," she whispered. "I don't choose anyone here." The scholar went to his knees.
"If that's so, little one," he said gently, "you don't have to choose, I promise you that. How do you know this?"
"I don't see myself here, Scholar. All I see is strange blankness. It frightens me so much. And they've come again. I want to know who the voices are and why they won't go away."
The scholar held her away from him, saying abruptly, "Have they been with you long?" Myme Chlo shook her head. "Look at me, Myme Chlo. Now!" The little girl raised her head timidly. "Look at me directly, little one." She obeyed. The tone of the scholar's voice brooked no argument. "Are the voices there now?"
She nodded miserably, mumbling, "They make my head hurt." The scholar held her steady. His voice was calm and deep.
"Open to me, Myme Chlo, and trust me. I'd never hurt you, you know that, don't you?" She nodded again, her eyes held by his. She hardly recognised the scholar's blue eyes because they suddenly darkened and became quite alien. "Take me with you, child, and lead me to the voices."
As Myme Chlo looked into the scholar's suddenly depthless eyes, she seemed to pass through them and knew he was in her mind, as he so often was these days when he taught her mind skills. They didn't mindspeak. She felt his mental probe faintly touch her in a way that was unfamiliar, and then shivered with shock as the probe slipped beyond her control and deep into her subconscious. Instinctively, she tried to close her mind but the scholar was too quick for her.
He easily blocked her and moved on to where he could hear the voices. Fascinated, he listened to them. They were distorted and wavery one minute, then became distinct. He recognised this child received the ebb and flow of teleth: it was extraordinary that she could do so and it momentarily stunned the scholar.
He telethed the voices himself, identified who he was and asked them to withdraw from that aethyr link. The voices were inclined to argue but the scholar was in no mood to listen. Abruptly the teleth ceased. It left the scholar to clear the last vestiges of confusion, before he felt able to quietly withdraw, erasing any memory of the voices and removing his mind block as he went. He mindspoke Myme Chlo.
"Can you hear me?"
"Yes."
"How are you feeling?"
"I'm tired. I'm always tired after you've been in my mind." Sharply, Myme Chlo cut the mind link. It made the scholar look at her in an odd way. She'd never had the ability to do that before.
"I think, little one," he said gently, "you need a holiday until after Choice. You should spend as much time with your mother and Sarehl as you can. Get along with you."
Myme Chlo threw her arms round the scholar as he knelt once again to accept her embrace.
"Thank you," she whispered.
Escorted to the door, she turned and grinned impishly up at the scholar, before she set off at a run. She left the scholar balefully staring at where she'd been, his mind seriously disturbed. These latest developments in Myme Chlo had come very quickly: he wasn't sure whether this was good or bad.
With another of his heavy sighs, he looked at brassbound volumes set over the fireplace at the end of his large study. He selected one and searched until he found the page he wanted and moved to a capacious chair. He sank back. Laras, entering the room a short time later, saw the opened volume in the scholar's lap and observed, too, that his eyes were closed. She quietly withdrew, aware that all did not augur well when the scholar turned to one of those tomes.
~~~
The scholar met Bruno quite some time prior to his discussion with Myme Chlo. After Sarehl's earlier visit, the scholar headed for the centre of the city, resolved to contact the merchant as soon as possible. He'd found Bruno, distinctive with his mane of red hair, at the exchange where the merchant did business, but because Chlorim saw the scholar and hailed him, he very nearly missed Bruno. It was purely fortuitous that Bruno should end up close by. The scholar and he struck up an acquaintanceship almost immediately and it wasn't difficult for the scholar to suggest they enlarge on their newfound friendship by going to a nearby inn.
They walked mostly in silence, mainly because the streets were crowded. The inn was in the financial part of the city so consequently it was hectic business in the taproom. Even though it was a crush, the scholar somehow made spaces through which they could weave, they got tankards and then went outside to sit at one of the few empty tables. There was nowhere to sit inside and neither man felt like being crushed.
The merchant turned deep blue eyes in the scholar's direction, asking, "What's your name, my friend?"
"Scholar," came the reply, as the scholar sipped appreciatively.
"Unusual name that," was Bruno's comment. "Nothing else?"
"Nothing else."
"Married, are you?"
"Sort of," agreed the scholar, smiling at Bruno's raised eyebrow. "Are you?"
"I was. I'm here with my son Lian."
"Is he your only son?" Bruno smiled in turn, shaking his head as he answered.
"Nay, he's my last and he's special to me. I had a quiverful of young before him."
"Is he with you now?"
"Aye, he is." This was accompanied by a sigh. "He's now sixteen cycles."
"Then he's company for you on your travels," suggested the scholar, drinking steadily. Bruno said nothing as he stared into his tankard. The scholar stayed silent. He waited for Bruno to speak again.
"I'm thinking of staying," Bruno said unexpectedly, looking up wi
th his eyes alert.
"You hope to find a mate?" asked the scholar casually. He saw the sudden hitch of the bushy red eyebrows and received a long look from those blue eyes.
"Choice," said Bruno carefully, "is only for the young."
"Oh, no," said the scholar filling his pipe, an action that seemed to absorb all his concentration. He packed down the tobacco. "You often find a widow, or a widower come to that, who's chosen too."
"Like a widow named Melas, you mean?" asked Bruno very softly. The scholar's hand went still. He didn't look up.
"Like Melas," he agreed.
"Do you know her well?" Running a hand through an extraordinarily long and thick red beard, Bruno settled himself back in the seat. He watched the scholar, still with an alert expression in his eyes.
"Yes," said the scholar unexpectedly, "very well. Her daughter helps Laras in the house and I give the child extra coaching in return." Bruno pursed his lips.
"I've met her. Is she like the brothers?"
The scholar looked up, his eyes warm with amusement as he responded cheerfully, "She's typical of an eight cycle child."
He saw Bruno's shoulders relax. When a smile came into the merchant's eyes, the scholar saw Bruno's tension ease and he slipped unobtrusively into the merchant's mind. He was unprepared for what he found there; the tampering was clever and very subtle with enough of a threat, more to Bruno's son than to Bruno himself, to make the merchant compliant and willing to marry Melas. There was no malice in the merchant at all. He was as strongly attracted to Melas, through what means the scholar couldn't guess, as she obviously was to him. The scholar read that when the merchant actually met Melas of Ortok, immediate strong appeal would be triggered by heightened attraction. The scholar wondered uneasily how anyone could know the name Melas, because it was unique and carried two meanings, "child of water", and "dragon-blessed". And who, he wondered even more uneasily, knew of her at all from the south?
The scholar sensed two strong compulsions in the merchant's mind. The first was to bring Lian into Melas' family and the second was to obey whoever had tampered with his mind. The wishes were for the sake of his son; Lian caused Bruno pain and anxiety. Quietly, the scholar withdrew, rose and held out his hand for Bruno's tankard.