Alsea Rising: The Seventh Star (Chronicles of Alsea Book 10)

by Fletcher DeLancey

  “I know this is our home too,” she began. “But I need to feel that I contributed. So will Ekatya. I’ve saved up some cinteks from my government work. Ekatya will be making a good salary—why are you smiling like that?”

  “We knew you’d feel that way. And you have more than a few cinteks in your account.” Salomen enjoyed her confusion; it wasn’t often she saw that on her scholar tyree. “Remember that award you said you didn’t need? The Sonalia Prize comes with a cash component. Whether or not you publicly accepted, you still earned that.” She squeezed Lhyn’s leg, interrupting the surge of denial. “You risked your life with the rest of us. So did Ekatya, and we all know she didn’t do it for the Protectorate. You helped save Alsea. Yes, you earned it.”

  Lhyn subsided. “Does Ekatya know?”

  “Based on what I’m sensing, she’s learning about it now. Along with her grandparents. As soon as she inscribes in the warrior caste and opens an account, her award will be deposited.”

  “Ekatya in the warrior caste,” Lhyn mused. “It was inevitable, wasn’t it? I remember our first day here, when Andira came to see us in the healing center. She and Ekatya were speaking warrior code even then.”

  Salomen leaned back against the window. She had put Lhyn’s office on the north side, knowing her priority would be protecting books and scrolls from sunlight, but the wide expanse of glass still admitted a great deal of indirect light. A mid-morning breeze had set the ancient trees rustling, conversing in a language even Lhyn could not hope to decipher. Beyond the buffer, the verdant fields of Hol-Opah stretched toward darker foothills, which in turn gave way to the great peaks of the Snowmount Range.

  All her life, she had looked onto these same fields and mountains. It seemed miraculous that Lhyn and Ekatya, who had traveled the galaxy, could be content in this ordinary place. Yet their emotions made it clear: this was a sanctuary for Ekatya and a true home for Lhyn.

  “Inevitable,” she repeated, watching the trees speak. “Yes, I think so.”

  39

  Creation

  “This is not what I thought we’d be doing our first day.” Dr. Wells bent over, the buzz of her instrument preparing Rahel for another round. “We don’t usually spike reproductive hormones with discomfort.”

  Rahel closed her eyes as the needles bit into her skin. “It’s only uncomfortable for a little while. I needed you to finish. Every time I looked in the mirror after bathing, all I could see was that unfinished quadrant.”

  “For the love of flight, it’s on your back. You had to make a special effort to see it and be bothered by it.”

  “No, I didn’t. I’d glance at the mirror as I walked out of the bathroom and there it was. Glaringly obvious.” Her shoulder blade twitched.

  Instantly, Dr. Wells lifted the instrument. “Do you need a moment?”

  “No, I’m fine. It’s only that spot. It tickles.”

  “Tickles,” she snorted. “Mm-hm. Hold on, let me finish this flame and I’ll be switching colors.” The instrument buzzed again, multiple needles stitching color under her skin. “If all you could see was the unfinished parts, how have you survived until now?”

  “It wasn’t unfinished before. It was just starting. When you drew the outline on my front, I admired it every day. I thought, ‘Hoi, look at that, there’s half my phoenix.’ Then you drew the other half and I had a full phoenix.” The needles hit another sensitive area and she exhaled, forcing herself to lie still. “Then you started filling in the colors, and every part of it was another piece of the picture. It was all building.”

  “Until all that was left was this.” Understanding filled the air around her. “Then it wasn’t a matter of building any longer. It just wasn’t done.”

  “You understand.”

  “I’m a painter. There, take a breath while I change ink.”

  Her body sank into the bed as she consciously relaxed her muscles. She didn’t have words to explain how much pleasure this process brought her. Watching her phoenix come to life was one of the most intense joys she had ever experienced. The transformation of her skin into a story—a story of transformation itself—made her feel as if her outside was finally matching her inside. She had been reborn so many times now, saved by fate and Fahla and people who loved her even though she made mistakes.

  Saved by the woman who was brushing a gentle hand across her skin before resuming her art.

  She could not imagine getting this tattoo from anyone else. It was too personal. Dr. Wells was an integral part of the story taking wing on her body, and for all her grumbles and mutterings, she found joy in this, too. It soaked into Rahel’s skin along with the ink, a deep happiness that was new to them both.

  Wanting to commit every part of this to memory, she opened her eyes.

  Dr. Wells sat on a stool that had been delivered from somewhere inside the pleasure house, stools not being standard furniture in the ceremony suites. She wore a robe loosely belted over a low-cut nightgown, both made of a fabric so finely woven as to seem liquid. The deep green color brought out her eyes and brightened her smile, which was already brilliant these days. Her hair was out of its usual twist, pulled back in a loose tail that softened the sharp planes of her face.

  She was intently focused on her work, bending over to add color, straightening to view it from a better angle, bending again, then turning to fetch a new sterile cloth. Though the nightwear had been a shock—Rahel had never been certain Dr. Wells actually needed sleep—this was day one of their creation ceremony. They were not in this suite as professionals or even visiting friends. They were here to create life.

  The instrument buzzed, stopped, and buzzed again, background music to the sensual banquet of Dr. Wells’s movements, the bite of needles as they spread their colors, and the complex, radiant emotions that filled the room. Rahel tried to soak it in, all too aware that this was the last time.

  And all too soon, it was over. It had lasted another hantick, but even a full day would not have been enough. Dr. Wells laid the instrument on the bedside table, blotted Rahel’s skin, and rested a gloved hand on her back.

  The sudden silence added a heavy echo to her stillness.

  “It’s done,” she whispered. “Rahel, it’s beautiful.”

  “May I see?”

  “Give me a moment.”

  This close, it was impossible to ignore.

  “I’m sad, too,” Rahel said. “I was so anxious to get it done, and now . . .”

  “Now it is. I feel like this every time I finish a painting. Eager to put on the final touches, then depressed that it’s done. This is worse, though. You aren’t a blank canvas.” Her hand swept up to Rahel’s neck and rubbed gently. “Thank you. For asking me. I can’t tell you how much it’s meant to me, being a part of this. But I don’t have to tell you, and that means even more.”

  “Sometimes it’s nice not to need the words, isn’t it?”

  A small laugh accompanied the lifting mood. “Yes, it is. Never thought I’d say that. Here.” She retrieved the hand mirror from the table. “Have a look while I coat it.”

  The mirror showed an unexpected addition: brilliant sparks flitting above the flaming wing and head feathers of her phoenix. “Hoi! That’s what you meant when you asked—oh, I love them. I need these on the front, too.”

  “I knew you would.” Dr. Wells’s head was down as she spread the aftercare ointment, but Rahel could hear the smug smile. “And now you see my cunning plan.”

  “We need another session.” It wasn’t over. Joy spread through her veins, unleavened by any sense of loss. Adding the sparks would take mere ticks, but that didn’t matter. What mattered was having something to look forward to.

  “One more, yes.” Dr. Wells met her eyes in the mirror. “But not until you’ve helped me make a child.”

  Rahel grinned at her. “I’m working on it.”

  40

  Seeing

  “No wonder Ravenel was so happy. It’s spectacular, Rahel.”

 
“Isn’t it? Mother almost cried. She says it looks exactly like her sculpture, except alive.”

  Rahel sat shirtless in the courtyard of the pleasure house, enjoying the rare warmth. Whitesun was unpredictable in its winter weather, offering howling storms interspersed with calm but cold days and, once in a great while, days like today. The air felt as soft as late spring, carrying scents of warm soil that would be gone tomorrow.

  Here in the courtyard garden, surrounded by the building’s stone walls, it was balmy enough to disrobe in comfort. She had chosen a bench beneath her mother’s favorite cinnoralis tree and was now turned to the side, allowing Sharro a good view of the finished tattoo.

  “It is alive,” Sharro said. “Every breath you take is proof.” She traced a gentle path up the length of the vertical scar, then down the arc of the second incision. “I would not see these if I didn’t know they were here. Do you think of them?”

  “I never really did, except to worry about Salomen seeing them. It’s a relief to know she won’t.”

  “Perfect truth isn’t always kind,” Sharro agreed. “Some truths don’t need a voice.”

  An elderly couple exited a ground-floor massage room across the courtyard, the man supporting his older companion. As they left the protected inner walkway to step into the sunshine, he looked up and waved.

  Rahel was unconcerned about her seminudity, which was common enough in this courtyard. But Sharro was not working today. She should not be subjected to the social necessity of speaking with a client.

  “There’s a client coming this way,” she said. “Shall we move on?”

  Sharro leaned out to look around her. “Ah! No, Timjan is special. She’s been with me since the beginning. May I show her your tattoo?”

  “Sure.” Rahel had to laugh at herself. Of all people, she should have known better than to make assumptions about who was a client.

  The man’s expression brightened when Sharro beckoned them over. He spoke to Timjan, who lifted her head but did not immediately look at them. Instead, she turned her head from one side to the other.

  Only then did Rahel become aware of the rapid clicks. They were emanating from the center ornament of a brightly colored band around Timjan’s forehead.

  “She’s echolocating!”

  “Yes. Timjan wants others to know what is possible, so I can tell you this: when she was seventy cycles, she lost her sight and her tyree in the same accident. She’s one hundred and eight now.”

  Not only a survivor of a broken tyree bond, but one who had rewired her brain. Impressed and fascinated, Rahel watched her approach.

  It was clear that Timjan was mapping her route with the reflected sound waves, and equally clear when her echolocation revealed the bench on which they sat. Her bearing and focus changed, and soon she stood in front of them, looking directly at Sharro through milky eyes that saw nothing.

  “I’d recognize that emotional signature anywhere! Sharro, well met.” She held up a hand for a palm touch. “And who is this beside you? She’s tall. Legs out to the pathway.”

  “Well met, Timjan. I’m very pleased to introduce Rahel Sayana. Rahel, this is Timjan and her son, Cullodren.”

  “Well met,” Rahel said politely, reaching for her hand.

  “Aren’t you a surprise! I’ve been hearing about you for many a cycle now. Thought I might meet Fahla before meeting you.” Timjan’s palm was warm and smelled strongly of massage oil.

  “I haven’t heard about you. Sharro never speaks of her clients. Cullodren, well met.”

  He murmured a greeting, his touch revealing shyness and awe.

  “Bah. She could speak of me; I have no secrets. I’ve lived too long to worry about keeping any. I can tell you something she doesn’t know, though.”

  “What is that?” Rahel liked her already.

  “When they announced on the news that you would recover, I was selfishly glad. Selfish, I say. Had you Returned, it would have been a long time before Sharro could give comfort again. I don’t have that kind of time.”

  “You have another tencycle at least,” Sharro said. “And you forget, I get comfort here as well as giving it.”

  “Hmph. From some. May I?”

  “Please do.”

  To Rahel’s great surprise, Timjan reached for Sharro’s face and began a gentle mapping with her hands.

  “It’s a good thing you like this oil,” she said.

  “It always reminds me of the day I first smelled it.” Sharro smiled, her eyes closed in pleasure. “That was a good day.”

  “Indeed it was.” Timjan slid her hands down the sides of Sharro’s neck, then dropped a kiss on her forehead before straightening.

  Rahel watched her with new respect. Sharro allowed few clients to touch her and none that she had met before now.

  “Yes, I’m one of the fortunate ones,” Timjan said, revealing her higher empathic rating. “I came to her after suffering a broken tyree bond. She was barely past her Rite of Ascension and just starting work here. Too young to help, I thought.”

  She couldn’t imagine it. Sharro was ageless.

  “She saved my life that first cycle. Saved my sanity the second. By then, she was as much a part of my life as the blood running through my veins.”

  “I know what you mean,” Rahel said. “She saved my life, too. And my mother’s.”

  Her face creased into a grin. “You and I should talk.”

  “Before you start collaborating,” Sharro said, “I thought you might enjoy seeing Rahel’s new tattoo.”

  “A tattoo! What is it?”

  “Rahel, will you stand up?” Sharro rose with her and positioned her in front of Timjan. “Timjan, your hand.”

  Gently, she set Timjan’s forefinger against the tattoo and began to trace the outline.

  “This is the phoenix Ravenel sculpted for her. It’s wrapped around her, front to back, starting at this wingtip.” She moved the finger back and forth, tracing out the wing and its angle. “Here, on the edges of the feathers, it’s half feather and half flame. Yellow as a honeywood campfire. But here, as you go down toward the wing bone, it cools to an orange-red. Like a binberry when it’s ripe enough to eat.”

  “Ah.” Timjan nodded. “Yes, I can see it.”

  Sharro described every part of the phoenix, asking Rahel to turn in place so they could trace the rest. When they reached the head, she said, “Be careful here. Her artist only finished coloring it yesterday.” She let go and stepped away, but Timjan’s hand remained.

  “I can feel it. Slightly raised still. Does it hurt, child?”

  Rahel had not been called that in twenty cycles. Stifling a laugh, she said, “Not at all. If I’m not careful with the ointment, it can itch, but my artist is with me here. She’ll make sure it’s treated properly.”

  “Good. She works here?”

  “No, we’re visiting for a few days.”

  “Hmph. There’s more in that statement than your words say.” She dropped her hand. “But it’s not my place to ask. Thank you for showing me your tattoo. I have it all in my mind now. When Sharro mentions you again, that’s what I’ll see.”

  She was too polite to ask, but Rahel could sense the longing.

  “Would you like to have my face in your mind as well?”

  Her eyes nearly vanished in the wrinkles produced by her toothy grin. “Anyone can see Sharro’s hand in your raising. Yes, I would like that very much.”

  She placed her hands unerringly atop Rahel’s head and began running her fingers through the short strands. “Hair like the burning clouds just after sunset.”

  “You can tell that from feeling it?”

  Her laugh echoed off the stone walls. “No, child. Sharro has told me all about you. She has a gift for painting verbal pictures. Golden eyes like the hide of a winden,” she murmured, tracing Rahel’s eyebrows. “Ringed in the dark brown of molwyn seeds. Small, delicate ears, yes, she said they were the only small thing about you. Ah, the strong jaw. Straight from your mo
ther, I hear.” She slid her hands along Rahel’s neck and out to her shoulders. “Thank you again. You’ve added images to my sessions with Sharro. Those are priceless to me.”

  She and her son left soon after, walking slowly but steadily through the courtyard toward the administrative wing.

  “Another of your rescues,” Rahel said. “How many lives have you saved?”

  “Not as many as you.” Sharro watched them go with an affectionate smile.

  “I was just in the right place at the right time.”

  “To believe so gives no weight to the choices that enabled you to be in that place and time.” She looked over, her smile growing. “And now you choose to be here. Not to save a life, but to create one. Shall we go inside and get started on that?”

  41

  Full circle

  Rahel could not recall ever being so pampered. Her medical needs aboard the Phoenix guaranteed comfort-giving sessions at least twice per week, but that did not compare to this.

  Each morning, she went to the warrior caste house for stave practice, followed by a shower and a blissful hantick in the centering room. There she would lie beneath the exotic potted trees, surrounded by fellow warriors and the scent of cinnoralis, and let her energies reset.

  Upon returning to the pleasure house, she would find either her mother or Sharro waiting. Sometimes they gave comfort, other times simply their company, which was a comfort in itself. On the third day, they left Little Mouse with a minder and came together. That enabled a wonderful session in which she rested her head on Sharro’s lap, her legs on her mother’s, and sank into the bliss of dual caresses. They surrounded her with love, for each other as well as her, and she could not imagine a finer feeling.

  Colonel Micah and Dr. Wells would emerge from their bedroom in time to share midmeal, after which Dr. Wells would inject Rahel and check her hormone levels. They remained high, a fact Rahel could attest to given the tender swelling just beneath the curve of her molwine and directly above her opening.