Catalyst

by Fletcher DeLancey

  She turned downhill.

  The path was steep, skipping between rocks and tree roots and bending back on itself before depositing her onto smooth, black sand. She stood still, scanning the cove from one side to the other. It was tiny, easily missed by anyone not paying attention to the trail. And it was empty.

  Perfect.

  Shells were piled up along the wrack line, and bits of color poked out of the sand all the way to where she stood at the base of the cliff. The waves came up this far, then, probably during storms. She bent down to where a crescent of purple winked near her feet and carefully pulled out a round, flat shell the size of her palm, rough on one side and so smooth as to be reflective on the other. She ran her fingers over the smooth side, then set it back on the sand. Her sandals were soon sitting next to it.

  Walking on this beach required more effort than on the swimming beach, where larger waves and guest traffic had removed most of the shells. Here they were so abundant that she had to pick her way between them, partly to save her feet and partly because she couldn’t bear to break them.

  Wave movement and a scattered layer of foam hid them once she reached the water. When she felt a shell crunch beneath her heel, she decided she had gone far enough. Standing shin-deep in the water, with the wavelets reaching to her knees, she stared out at Pica Mahal.

  It was a relief to be alone, free of the emotions running rampant on the other side of the island. Andira and Salomen mostly kept their fronts up, but the others had very weak fronts. Micah was a low empath, Jaros was a child, and then there were Ekatya and Lhyn, pouring out their emotions like a pair of erupting volcanoes.

  She was not used to such unending exposure. At the temple, where she dealt with varying levels of emotions all day long, she could always retreat to her study or her quarters when she needed a rest. Here there was no retreat, not during the first day when everyone was expected to remain in the group.

  She had not thought to need a retreat today, but something had shifted in Ekatya overnight. The distrust and outright dislike, all aimed directly at Lanaril, had been bewildering and intense. For half a day she had kept to the periphery, trying to stay out of Ekatya’s field of view, but after that she had snapped. Enough was enough; she did not deserve this and she would not tolerate it. So she had deliberately inserted herself into the conversation.

  But she was not at the top of her game. The bombardment from Ekatya at such close range breached even her blocks, distracting her, and she had nearly let slip a secret that should never have reached her lips. Ekatya’s suspicion had stabbed into her with such strength that she reacted on instinct, reminding the captain just how much reason she had given every Alsean on this planet to distrust her.

  It had been spectacularly effective. The shame slammed into Lanaril’s senses, hot and red, and Ekatya had vanished into the forest a few ticks later.

  “Well done, Lanaril,” she said aloud. “Striking out to avoid being hurt—quite worthy of a Lead Templar.” Her own shame had eventually driven her onto the trail, but six lengths of walking had not diminished it.

  Movement out to sea caught her eye, and she gasped when a great silver shape leaped out of the water, hung suspended for a piptick, and crashed back with a spectacular splash.

  A wingfish! She stood in shock, wondering if that had truly just happened. All doubt fled when the wingfish leaped again—and then a third time. She thrust her fists up in the air and whooped.

  She waited and hoped, her vigil rewarded when the wingfish reappeared to the east and leaped once, twice, and three times more. This time Lanaril did a little dance in place, shouting her glee. Again she waited, but when five ticks had passed and it did not reappear, she accepted that it was gone. With a silent thank-you to Fahla for the joy of such a gift, she turned toward the cliff.

  Back where she had left her shoes, she stopped to brush the wet sand off her feet and paused at the sight of the house-sized boulder near the cliff. She had paid little attention when passing it earlier, but it looked easy to climb. The view from the top might lead to more wingfish sightings.

  In a moment she was scrambling up, finding convenient handholds and footholds. The very top was the most difficult, with the last foothold a little too far down. She planted her hands on the smooth surface and hoisted herself up, swinging her foot to the edge and finally rolling onto the top. Victory achieved, she stood and dusted herself off.

  “You made it,” a voice said.

  Lanaril let out an undignified shriek and jumped back, her heel slipping over the edge.

  “Hoi, hold on!” Movement blurred in her vision, and someone grabbed her wrist, jerking her forward again. “Fahla, I’m sorry about that. I didn’t mean to make you leap off again.”

  She looked up into a familiar face, though at the moment she could not put a name to it. Given the height of the woman who was still holding her, this could only be Andira’s new Lead Guard. Her hair, as black as Lanaril’s but longer, was unbound and draped around her face, hiding much of it.

  The woman let go of Lanaril’s wrist and pushed her hair back over her shoulders, revealing high cheekbones set off by beautifully narrow ridges, a generous mouth, and wide-set, dark blue eyes. “Glad I caught you,” she said. “I don’t think Lancer Tal would be impressed if I had to report that I broke one of her friends.”

  “What…? How long have you been here?” Lanaril had recovered neither poise nor manners.

  “Long enough to see Blacksun’s Lead Templar getting very excited about jumping wingfish.”

  Lanaril flushed. “Lovely,” she muttered. “I thought I was alone.”

  “Obviously.” The woman laughed at her discomfort, then held up a palm. “Well met, Lead Templar. I’m Vellmar.”

  Lanaril met her palm automatically, pausing when she felt the raw attraction. She did not often experience that; her rank and office tended to interfere. She glanced up, saw the emotion reflected in smiling eyes, and made a quick decision.

  “Well met, Vellmar. Please, call me Lanaril.”

  Vellmar’s eyebrows lifted. “I’m honored to do so.”

  “I’m not quite dressed like a Lead Templar. Or acting like one,” Lanaril added.

  Vellmar had an unguarded laugh. “No, but you might try that when you return. I’d bet you would gain quite a few new converts.”

  “For all the wrong reasons, yes. That sort of piety generally doesn’t last long.” Lanaril looked around the top of the rock for the first time. “Ah. That’s why I didn’t see you.”

  A light jacket lay next to a shallow depression in the stone. Anyone sitting there would be blocked from view by a fin of rock jutting up from the side.

  “Yes, it’s very private up here. If you had turned around and looked while you were standing in the water, you would have seen me. But you seemed very focused.”

  Lanaril nodded, realizing for the first time that Vellmar had a perfect front—the other reason she had been able to remain undetected. After a day and a half of withstanding emotional bombardment from the bonding party—and especially from Ekatya—being alone with a powerful high empath was a relief.

  It occurred to her then that Vellmar was probably seeking the same solitude.

  “I’m sorry; I’ve intruded on your peace,” she said, turning away. “I’ll just—”

  “No, please don’t.” Vellmar caught her hand. “I told myself that if you walked back to the trail without seeing me, I would never mention having been here. But since you didn’t, I wonder if you might like to come back to my cabin for a drink.”

  “Just a drink?”

  “Anything else depends on you.” Her smile was as unguarded as her laugh. “I’m sure you get offers like this all the time, and I would never have dared to ask before, but…right now you seem less like a Lead Templar and more like a very beautiful woman. Who dances at the sight of a wingfish. And I still have
two days of leave, and you’re on a bonding break, and the air is full of promise.”

  Lanaril could do nothing but smile back at her. “I cannot be a Lead Templar and a beautiful woman at the same time?” Good Fahla, she didn’t even recognize the tone of her voice.

  “You can and you are; I’ve seen it. But I would never have found the courage to ask that version of you back to my cabin.”

  “Not to mention you don’t have a cabin back in Blacksun.”

  “Not like this. I’m in the Bonding Bower; it’s breathtaking. And going entirely to waste.”

  She was smooth, Lanaril had to admit, with enough sincerity to make it charming.

  “Then perhaps we shouldn’t waste it,” she said.

  Vellmar’s cabin circle was not far from the cove. It looked like the one Lanaril was in, with the Bonding Bower in another giant delwyn tree, though this one had four spreading branches rather than three. For the first time, Lanaril realized that the resort owners must have planned the entire island layout around the delwyns.

  The view from inside was just as Vellmar had said: breathtaking. They were above the tree canopy, looking down onto a sea of green, and Lanaril was reminded of her first trip to Mahaite. The main island filled up the west view, while to the northeast, Pica Mahal collected clouds around its peak.

  They sat at the table against the east wall of glass and shared a bottle of spirits while chatting about their families, their mutual experiences at Whitemoon Sensoral Institute, and the one person they had in common. Lanaril was fascinated to hear about the initial Sharing search for Herot Opah; Andira’s version had been rather simplified compared to this. Of course, Vellmar had seen it from a very different point of view, and her awe at having been given such an unprecedented access was a pleasure to experience.

  Her youth was another unexpected pleasure—she was surprisingly guileless given her rank and current assignment. Lanaril guessed she might be fifteen cycles younger, yet her lack of life experience manifested not as immaturity but rather as an endearing innocence and joy in life.

  It took some time to understand what it was about Vellmar that put her so at ease: she listened more than she spoke. Lanaril was startled to realize how much she had told this virtual stranger about herself, but Vellmar seemed to draw it out of her. It was a role reversal that almost made her laugh. But it also made her realize how much of her life was spent listening, and how seldom she had someone looking at her with such intensity, listening as if every word she said was being heard, weighed, and understood.

  After the emotional stress of the day, being with Vellmar felt like walking from a construction zone into a quiet garden. The sheer contrast enhanced Lanaril’s appreciation of her company, and she did not front it. She watched the recognition grow in Vellmar’s eyes, felt it whenever they touched hands, and was more than happy to let this go wherever it took them.

  They reached the bottom of the bottle, and when Lanaril commented on how rapidly they had drunk it, Vellmar pointed across the cabin to the sun, low on the western horizon. They had been talking for nearly two hanticks.

  She wandered over to the north wall, taking in the view of Pica Mahal, while Vellmar opened a second bottle. Behind her, she heard the tab being pulled and spirits splashing into glasses. The bottle thunked onto the table, and then…nothing.

  “I think we should come back to the spirits later,” Vellmar said. “After we’ve had time to absorb the first bottle.”

  Lanaril nodded but stayed where she was, her gaze on the volcano. She waited as the footsteps came up behind her.

  “The privacy glass is active.” Vellmar’s voice was right next to her ear.

  “Good.” Still she did not turn.

  Vellmar rested large hands on her waist as she nosed into her neck. “I’m so glad you climbed my boulder.”

  “I’m glad you caught me dancing at the sight of a wingfish.” Lanaril leaned back into her, enjoying her strength and solidity. “Even though I was mortified at first.”

  “You don’t feel mortified now.” Vellmar’s hands slid up her sides and around to her front.

  “You haven’t told me your name,” Lanaril said as she linked their hands together. Their skin tones made a pleasing contrast, shannel mixed with cream.

  “Yes, I have.”

  She reached back with one hand and pulled Vellmar’s head down as she turned her own. Their lips met in a slow, exploratory kiss, tasting of spirits and sea salt and anticipation. She curled her fingers in the thick hair, giving a gentle tug to signal her withdrawal, but could not resist sliding her tongue along Vellmar’s lower lip as they pulled apart. The shiver that ran through the body behind her made her smile.

  Facing forward once more, she said, “I am not joining with a warrior. I’m joining with you. What is your name?”

  “It really is Vellmar.”

  “It’s really not. Or shall I call you Lead Guard?”

  Vellmar began kissing a line down the side of her neck. “You…are much too accustomed…to being the one…in control.” She sucked on the soft spot at the juncture of neck and shoulder.

  “I worked all my life for that control. But I don’t need it here.” Lanaril pulled away and turned around, looking into her eyes. “I just don’t want to call you the same name that all of your Guards do.”

  Vellmar hesitated, then shook her head with a smile. “Fianna. My first name is Fianna. And nobody uses it except my mothers. Even my brother calls me VC.”

  “VC?”

  “Childhood nickname. I’m not nearly drunk enough to tell you what it means.”

  “Hm, a challenge. Are you truly telling me that all of your lovers have called you Vellmar?”

  “They’ve all been warriors.”

  “Then I shall be your first lover to call you Fianna. Unless you prefer VC.”

  “What a choice. Fianna it is, then.”

  “Fianna,” Lanaril murmured, running her fingertips along those wonderfully narrow cheek ridges. “Thank you for giving me the peace I needed today.” She kissed the place where her fingers had been, then worked her way around Fianna’s jaw, down her neck, and back up to her mouth.

  This kiss was deeper than the first one, growing in heat as their hands began to explore. Lanaril was fascinated by the planes and muscles beneath Fianna’s shirt and soon had it off altogether, her eyes widening at the athletic body in her arms. She had little experience with warriors and none at all with Guards, but this woman was exquisite.

  She shivered as Fianna’s hands moved up her thighs, lifting her wrap skirt as they slid higher. Gentle caresses grew more insistent, and then her skirt was gone, her shirt following soon after. Fianna paused long enough to strip away her own short pants, then pressed into Lanaril and pushed her against the glass.

  Lanaril reflected that it had been many cycles since she had joined with someone against a wall…and then she stopped thinking about anything except the way they fit together, the sensations rippling through her body, and the way Fianna’s voice grew husky as their passion rose.

  Later, she had a vague concern that if her legs didn’t stop shaking, she might fall.

  Fianna did not let her.

  It was long past evenmeal and dark as the bottom of a well when Lanaril returned to her cabin circle; the moons had not yet risen. Fianna refused to let her go back alone and escorted her all the way, a small light in one hand and Lanaril’s fingers in the other. The constant, reassuring touch felt safe.

  She was even more grateful for the escort upon realizing that Vellmar knew the paths crossing the island, saving considerable time. She had not been looking forward to walking six lengths in the dark on legs that even now were not back to full strength.

  Strains of music filled the air as they approached another cabin circle, and Lanaril drew them to a stop to watch the impromptu performance. Five Guards in casual d
ress were sitting on the deck of their main cabin, skillfully playing an old ballad on a ten-string, windpipes, and two small drums. Lanaril found herself tapping out the rhythm on her thigh, and when they swung into the refrain, she began to hum along.

  Too soon, the song ended. The players grinned at each other as they set down their instruments and spoke back and forth, a peaceful rumble of conversation that flowed over her and brought back old memories of lying in bed at night, listening to her fathers downstairs.

  “My birthfather used to sing that to me when I was a child,” she said. “But not with such lovely musical accompaniment.”

  Fianna smiled down at her, and for a moment she wished she could always be surrounded by such peace and safety, rather than the ever-present needs of Blacksun Temple and those it served. She wished she could be cared for by someone like Fianna, whose protective instincts showed in every gesture and thoughtful act.

  But this was not her world, and she had chosen her path a long time ago. With a tug on Fianna’s hand, she indicated her readiness to resume their walk.

  When they arrived at the edge of her circle, Fianna thumbed off the light, pocketed it, and drew Lanaril into a warmron. “Thank you for a wonderful evening,” she said quietly. “And for accepting my offer.”

  “You were wrong about that, you know.” Lanaril kissed the corner of her mouth, enjoying the scent of freshly showered skin. “I don’t get offers like that all the time.”

  “Is everyone in Blacksun blind?”

  “Would you have asked me in Blacksun?”

  “Probably not.”

  “Then there is your answer.”

  Fianna nuzzled her throat, then sucked lightly on her jaw. “May I ask you again?”

  She had two more days of leave, Lanaril remembered. And the air was full of promise. This might not be her world, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t luxuriate in it for as long as it lasted.