by Sharon Lee
She smiled.
“In the many years I have known him, I have once seen your father entirely angry. It is something that I do not wish to see again. He had not, you understand, lost his temper; he had unleashed his anger: it was a weapon, and he wielded it so.
“Your gifts are multifaceted: properly applied, you may use them to assist those in need; to defend those under your protection; to restore those who have been wounded; and to elude those who wish to harm you. As you know which tool in your belt is suited to a particular job, so you must learn which aspect of your gift to call upon to aid you in a particular circumstance.”
Lina paused, considering, so Padi thought, whether she ought to go on. After a moment she inclined her head.
“You must also learn when your gift is the best answer to a problem. You have power—a great deal of power—though it does, as everything, have limits. But, just as a dagger is not the best tool for signing a waybill, so, too, your talent is not always the best solution to an immediate problem.
“You must always recall that you have options, and you must take care not to become overdependent upon your gifts. They are an enhancement; they complement your other skills; they are subject to your intellect, and your judgment. You choose how—or if—to answer a perceived threat. In the case of Healer Osit—I do not mean to belittle your ultimate choice because I believe it was the best of several to hand. However, only consider what you might have done instead.”
She held up her hand, thumb extended.
“You might have called out.”
She extended her forefinger.
“You might have run.”
Second finger: “You might have physically restrained him.”
She paused before extending her third finger, expression wry.
“You might, in fact, have allowed the Healer to proceed.
“Some of those choices were better suited to the situation than others. But it is well to always remember that you have options, precisely as you did before your gift broke through. You have not been reduced to one answer; rather, you have been given an additional category of solutions.”
Padi said nothing. Lina inclined her head, as if she had heard Padi’s doubts, and continued.
“So, then, you will please allow me to link with you. I intend to demonstrate the formation and use of a simple lift-tool. This is a basic protocol, designed to help beginning practitioners rightly judge the amount of force required for particular tasks.”
She extended her hand, palm up.
Padi drew a breath to calm the flutter in her belly. This was Lina, after all. They had linked several times since her gift had arrived, mostly so Lina could fully observe her process.
Lina would not, Padi told herself firmly, try to entrap her.
She placed her palm against the other woman’s palm.
“Thank you. Now attend me.”
There came a sensation of slight warming, and Padi saw a swirl of mist just above the tabletop, to the right of the scorched stylus. The mist coalesced, taking on a wedge shape.
Once the shape was set, Padi felt a shift in the air—a push, in fact.
“You see?” Lina murmured.
“I do . . . ” Padi said, and wondered if she should mention that she had no clear idea how to produce a tool of her own, though she had just watched this one being formed.
“I will now transfer the wedge to you, so that you may learn its shape and essence,” Lina said.
Padi felt a . . . weight approach, and instinctively—reached with something other than her hands, but which nonetheless felt perfectly natural. She sat, holding the wedge . . . somehow, feeling the shape and the weight, and the . . . intention behind its making.
“Excellent,” Lina said eventually. “Return it to me, please.”
Fumbling, Padi managed to push the thing in Lina’s general direction, and was aware of its weight vanishing.
“We unlink now,” Lina murmured, and Padi lifted her hand away, blinking to clear the wisps of mist from her eyes.
Across the table, Lina sat with hands folded, the scorched stylus somewhat removed from its original landing area. She inclined her head.
“For your off-shift practice,” she said, “you will use the lift we have practiced together to raise a stylus fifteen centimeters from the top of your desk. You will hold it steady for a slow count to six, then lower the stylus to the desktop. You will do twelve repetitions. For the first, you will use as much energy as you believe is necessary for the task—no more. For each succeeding repetition, you will decrease the energy you bring to the task until you are unable to lift the stylus. When you reach that point, increase your output of energy as slowly as you are able, until the stylus rises. While you are doing this practice, pay especial attention to the quality of the energy that you raise, and note its characteristics: temperature, texture, weight, shape, and any other factor that arises to your notice. Do not rush through this exercise. Take time to observe the quality of each energy level.”
She paused, and added, “When you have finished the twelve repetitions, open your Inner Eyes and observe the stylus. Be ready to recall and describe what you See.
“Do you have any questions?”
Padi did not sigh.
“No, Lina. Thank you.”
The Healer laughed aloud.
“Yes, it is a tiresome exercise, fully as tedious as studying exchange rates, or dancing basic footwork in menfri’at! I ask your forgiveness for placing such a burden upon your gift, which I assure you is dazzling and complex and wholly beyond me. My only excuse is the one given by all tutors in the groundwork of a skill: You must be certain of the foundation which will support every thing that you will build upon it. Truly, it is best to go slowly, and test every joint and nail. Which I know is very little comfort to you, when you wish to open your wings and soar!”
Padi smiled, and bowed. “How should the student forgive the teacher?” She paused, and added wistfully, “Though I should like to soar, if only a little.”
Lina frowned slightly.
“There is something in what you say. Allow me to consult with Priscilla and with Shan. Perhaps something may be arranged. In the meanwhile, Student, our lesson for this shift is done. Until our next meeting, be well, be attentive, and be strong.”
III
His letter sent, Shan opened his research file. The information had not grown more hopeful in the time he had spent away from it. In fact, it seemed even more dismal than before, mere lines and columns of statistics and facts with no glow of interesting possibility to any of it.
If he had hoped to find that their side trip to Millsap had reshuffled possibility in a positive way—he would have been sorely disappointed. The next closest port of even small interest was Pommier, which . . . he called up the various indexes, confirming what he already knew. Of small interest to the Passage and to Korval, was Pommierport.
Shan spun his chair so that his back was to the screen, crossed his arms behind his head, and tipped back until he was staring at the ceiling.
He and the ceiling were old friends; he had many times sought its advice in the face of a knotty problem. Indeed, this was not the first time they had met together on the topic of designing a new route sufficient to the clan’s necessities. If only it were to be the—
A chime sounded, sweet and brief. Shan dropped the chair to perpendicular, spun ’round to face the door, and stood.
“Come!” he called, as if the door wouldn’t open to her hand. It was an old joke, comfortably worn in, like an old jacket.
But Priscilla, when she entered a moment later, was not smiling. She looked, Shan thought, weary, and there was an undercurrent of annoyance buzzing along the lifemate link.
He hoped, without much confidence, that he wasn’t the cause of this ill mood. But, even if he was, it was clearly his part to offer her ease.
“Hello, Priscilla,” he said gently. “Would you like a glass of wine?”
She smiled briefly.
“I’ll just have some tea. May I refresh your glass?”
“Thank you, no; I’ve only just filled it,” he said, and watched her cross the room, pour, and return to settle into the chair opposite him.
He sank back into his own chair, raised his glass. She raised hers; they drank.
Replacing his glass, he considered his options. Best, he thought, just to ask. He cleared his throat.
“Lina tells me that the Healers of Millsap were . . . unhelpful,” Priscilla said, interrupting him before he had fairly begun.
“Unhelpful scarcely brings us into far orbit around the Healers of Millsap,” he said, startled by the bitterness in his own voice.
“They took leave to remonstrate with Padi regarding her lack of care for her elders, after which one of the pair attempted to surround her in his shields.”
“Surely he had a reason,” Priscilla murmured.
“Surely he did,” he said sharply. “He wished to demonstrate to her what it felt like to be enclosed by shields. Padi, however, recalls most vividly the crisis she was brought to by locking her gifts away. Indeed, her elders have been at great pains to tell her—repeatedly—that her method was an error of some proportion.”
He took a breath, and finished, more moderately.
“Also, I gather that she did not find him . . . reassuring.”
Priscilla sighed. “Did she hurt him?”
Shan shook his head. “She startled him. She may have frightened him. But she did not hurt him.”
He put the glass down.
“It’s entirely possible that he found being held against the wall a meter or so above the floor . . . uncomfortable. He may have feared falling, though to my eye, he was being held very firmly.”
He paused to catch his breath, which was absurd, and finished more quietly. “I asked her to release him, which she promptly did, allowing him to slide most gently down to the rug. I witnessed no harshness, no cruelty, no carelessness.”
Priscilla sipped her tea thoughtfully.
“It takes considerable fine control,” she said at last, “to lift and hold a man against a wall.”
“So I was just remarking to myself. Even Lina allows it to be so.”
“Does Lina think Padi overreacted?”
Shan sighed, recalling his last, rather tense conversation with Lina.
“Lina remains convinced—has become more convinced—that she is no fit tutor for Padi. The display of fine control that you and I find so admirable in the case . . . perturbs Lina. I gather she would be easier if Padi had left even a small dent in the wall.”
Priscilla smiled, briefly, and sipped more tea.
“And yourself?” she asked eventually.
“Myself?” he repeated. “I am altogether distasteful to the Healers of Millsap, an opinion I can’t really dispute, given that I was so ill-natured as to entertain a panic attack in answer to a modest request that I drop my shields. In addition, I preferred Lina’s touch, and was found to have taken my wounds from a forced Healing, which was nothing more, and possibly less, than I deserved.”
“A panic attack,” Priscilla murmured.
“Yes. Ridiculous of me. She was entirely civilized, and yet—”
He stopped, and looked into her eyes, turning his hands up to demonstrate precisely how empty they were.
“I believe that I may be experiencing a bit of post-trauma distress.”
“I can help you with that, if you wish,” Priscilla said softly.
He glanced aside.
“Unless,” Priscilla said, after a moment, “there’s some value to holding the trauma close.”
Yes, well, trust Priscilla to lay her hand immediately on the dilemma.
He met her eyes again.
“It may be that there is,” he said, which was nothing more than the truth given between lifemates. “I’m uncertain in my own mind, if you will have it.”
“Healer Ferin did give as her professional opinion that the lingering cuts and bruises might be Healed with minimal risk, and some gain in overall health. That has been done . . . ”
“Lina?” murmured Priscilla.
“Indeed. I believe it may be best, for clarity, to allow the new Healing a day or two to resolve, before making an in-depth evaluation.”
“That seems wise,” Priscilla agreed. “Let’s talk again in a few days.”
“Yes.”
“In the meantime,” Priscilla began—and paused.
Slowly, she straightened in her chair and glanced down at her hands, now folded on her knee. There was a flutter across the lifemate link, then a sense of decision taken.
Puzzled, Shan waited.
Priscilla lifted her face to his, her mobile features composed, very nearly Liaden in their smooth lack of emotion.
“The captain inquires of the master trader,” she said in the High Tongue.
Shan blinked.
Over the years, Priscilla had gained near-native fluency in the High Tongue—no easy task for one not born to the burden—but they rarely spoke Liaden between themselves, preferring Terran, or the love language they had created together.
Certainly, they did not play melant’i games with each other—they were lifemates: one heart, one soul, one melant’i, so tradition had it.
Except . . . not precisely.
After all, Priscilla was the captain, and he . . . was the master trader.
He took another breath.
Really, Shan, he told himself, strive for some breeding.
Melant’i had been invoked, and at the highest level. He would insult the good captain if he sat silent and gaping even a moment longer.
Therefore, he inclined his head.
“The master trader awaits the captain’s inquiry with interest.”
It was shading the High Tongue, that with interest, lending it a cool semblance of warmth. And yet, he could not speak to Priscilla as if they shared nothing more than their relative melant’is of captain and trader.
Priscilla was in a fair way to winning this game, if game it was. Her expression was properly bland, she looked at his face, but did not make eye contact. Impeccable. One would scarcely be able to contain one’s admiration were one not frightened half to death.
“The captain wonders after the master trader’s proposed route,” she said.
His route? Surely, she knew that he had no route, that he had been flailing in the muck, trying to find, shape or buy a route for the last—
Oh.
Suddenly, he saw where this was going. Into a minefield, that was where it was going, and very possibly into a quarrel. Priscilla was . . . not at high energy, while he—well, it had been recently established that he was emotionally at risk. Perfect starting material for a quarrel, especially if they remained in Terran, which was so charmingly . . . intimate.
The High Tongue, however, was chilly and distant, which made a . . . heated quarrel impossible, though the outcome of the conversation might yet be disappointing.
“The master trader,” he said, his mode austere and impeccable, “continues his researches in regard to a route. Has the captain a suggestion?”
He might have properly ended his reply with route, but there was no point in prolonging this uncomfortable conversation by insisting that she petition him to entertain another inquiry.
“The captain suggests that the master trader might combine two necessary tasks with care for kin and self. The captain is able to provide to the master trader a short list—three worlds, rated safe to very safe, with access to well-regarded Healer Halls large enough to accommodate a staff of teaching Healers.
“The captain is also able to provide the coordinates and a brief for a fourth world, also rated safe, which shelters an independent Circle of priestesses, a temple, and a school. Customized tutorial programs are also possible.”
Oh, yes, Shan thought, so very, very much better to pursue this conversation in the High Tongue.
He inclined his head.
“One values the captain’
s good sense, and her advice. Please forward the particulars of these worlds and I will include them in my researches. When those researches are complete, the master trader will petition the captain to set course. As is proper.”
Gods, that was cold, he thought, hearing himself. Only—cold was better—twelves better!—than hot.
Priscilla—the captain of Dutiful Passage, say rather—inclined her head, and stood.
“The captain thanks the master trader for his consideration.”
She did not bow, perhaps being uncertain of the proper mode. Gods knew he was uncertain of the proper mode.
Therefore, he rose with a murmured, “Captain,” and walked with her to the door, which he opened for her with his own hand.
* * *
He stood there, long after the door had closed, feeling breathless and without connection, trembling on the edge of weeping.
Gods abound, but he was a fool!
No, he corrected himself. No, he was much more than a mere fool.
Only count the ways.
He was a master trader failing in his duty to his clan . . .
A thodelm who had forgotten proper care of kin . . .
A Healer who could not Heal . . .
A father who imperiled his heir . . .
A man whose lifemate feared his temper . . .
Oh, it was a marvelous list, and it could, he thought, grow longer and more desperate yet, if he were willing to give in entirely to self-pity and despair.
Suddenly, he wanted, very much, to talk with his father.
His father, who had been master trader when Shan had been Padi’s age, and a hopeful ’prentice.
His father, who had followed his lifemate into death twelve years ago.
Sadly, conversing with the dead was beyond the scope of any Healer or dramliza . . .
