B00CH3ARG0 EBOK

by Christie Meierz

  Laura pursed her lips. “I was a ship’s wife. I should be used to it.”

  Marianne looked blank.

  “Ships are full of young people,” she explained. “Affairs on board are against regs, but they happen anyway, young people being what they are. John hand-picked the crew of the Alexander, and the Bellerophon before that. Highly skilled, highly motivated young people also tend to be highly ... interested in each other. Coming down hard on them for that makes for no small amount of resentment. John turned a blind eye to it, as long as it didn’t involve the chain of command and there weren’t any rivalries or bad breakups.”

  “But you had – forgive me for saying this – you had John,” Marianne said, gentle again. “You had an outlet.”

  “Yeah,” she said, starting to relax a little. “So did he. John was also – highly skilled and highly motivated.”

  “You’re climbing the walls, aren’t you?”

  She inhaled sharply and stiffened again. This was getting a little too personal. “I wouldn’t put it that way.”

  Marianne appeared to backpedal. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Forget I said that.”

  Laura swallowed, trying to clear the lump in her throat. Tears spilled down her cheeks. “I don’t want someone new,” she whispered. “I want John.”

  Marianne moved next to Laura and put an arm around her. “Of course,” she said.

  * * *

  “What is a ‘Latin lover’?” the Sural asked that night, spooning against Marianne’s back and stroking her swollen belly.

  “Were you eavesdropping?” she murmured, her voice thick with drowsiness.

  “I monitor my guests. Laura is a guest.”

  She grumbled and turned toward him, veering away from sleep. “It’s more of a reputation than anything else.”

  “Tell me.”

  “During certain periods of human history, men from a region of Earth called Latin America had the reputation of being expert, passionate lovers,” she explained, the last word distorted by a yawn. “And they look a lot like Tolari – black hair, dark eyes, light brown skin.”

  His lips curved. “I approve,” he said.

  Marianne made a rude noise and woke up a little more. “You would!”

  He chuckled.

  “Anyway,” she continued, “Laura has made a number of wistful comments to Cena and me about our ‘Latin lovers.’ I don’t think it’s envy, exactly. Maybe she just regrets getting older. She is definitely lonely, but she’s got very strict ideas about what kind of behavior a widow her age is allowed to indulge in. She can’t avoid seeing all the romance going on here, and she’s still living by the unspoken rules of the society she was born in. She’s got no way to express what it’s making her feel.”

  “You think it would benefit her to take a lover?”

  “I honestly don’t know. It might only make her feel guilty.”

  The Sural’s face was a picture of confusion. “I do not comprehend humans, beloved. Truly, I do not.”

  She laughed.

  “I could arrange to put suitable ... potential partners ... in her way,” he said. “How she would respond to them is, of course, her choice.”

  “Did you have something particular in mind?” she asked, her interest piqued.

  “Perhaps a conference of artists and musicians, with exhibitions and concerts. It is the closest I can simulate to a human social event.”

  Marianne flashed a luminous smile. “She might take an interest in the sort of men who’d take part in something like that,” she said. “That’s brilliant!”

  * * *

  The next morning, at the Sural’s suggestion, Laura, Marianne, and Cena wandered up to the top level of the stronghold, which he had ordered cleaned and opened. He’d told them it included several large rooms full of the stronghold’s private art collection and had not been opened in many years. Laura was thrilled by the beauty of the art and sculpture on display. She rushed ahead of her companions as they strolled from room to room and exclaimed over particularly exquisite pieces.

  “Why isn’t this floor open all the time?” she asked, amazed that anyone would keep such beauty locked away. “Why would he close it up? If this were mine, I would come here every day!”

  Marianne just shrugged. “Don’t ask me.” Her voice was sour. “I didn’t even know this was here.”

  “The exhibits are clean and well-kept,” Cena said. “He does not neglect them.”

  “It would be a crime to let art like this fall into decay,” Laura said.

  “Indeed.”

  “What a treasure!”

  “The Sural’s coming,” Marianne said. A few moments later, he burst into view, striding into the room.

  “Are you enjoying my collection?” he asked as he joined them.

  “Oh, it’s lovely!” Laura’s enthusiasm was in full display, making her nearly bounce on her heels. “Why do you keep it closed up and out of sight? Art needs to be seen!”

  He shrugged, a small smile flickering on his handsome face. “If it must be open, it must have guards.”

  She blinked, a little surprised. “Tolari would steal?”

  “No, but open, unguarded rooms in my stronghold are a temptation my enemies could not resist.”

  “Oh.” Laura deflated.

  His smile widened. “Perhaps it would please you to know that I have called a conference of artisans and musicians to take place eight days from now. There will be exhibits and concerts for three days. You may spend as much time as you like on this floor until I close it again after the conference.”

  Delight flared through her. She felt like an excited child, despite her age. “Wonderful!” Then she blinked. “But how could you get a conference together so quickly?”

  “There are always those among us who are ready to perform or teach or put their work on display,” he replied in a bland voice.

  She gave him a wry grin and turned to a life-size sculpture on a dais in the middle of the room. It was carved from a black material that showed every detail of the sculptor’s work: two Tolari, a man and a woman, clinging to each other, nude and in ecstasy. The level of detail was beyond belief, down to skin texture and individual hairs.

  “Why aren’t you blushing?” Marianne asked, a sly grin on her face. “It’s very ... well, it’s explicit.”

  “It’s art.”

  “It is the central piece of my collection,” the Sural said. “A sculpture of the rapture of bonding, by the greatest sculptor who has ever lived among us, Tarric. It was sculpted in place and cannot be moved.”

  “Tarric lived a thousand years ago,” Cena added.

  Marianne whistled softly. “A thousand Tolari years? It looks like it was finished yesterday.”

  “It is protected,” the Sural told them, reaching out until gold sparks radiated from where his fingertips made contact with a barrier. “There is inert gas within. Only light can pass through.”

  As he finished speaking, Storaas came strolling into the room. Laura waved, and beside her, Cena’s eyes lit up. The old man smiled and headed for them.

  “High ones, apothecary, Laura,” he greeted. “It is good to see this floor open, however briefly.” He tucked Cena’s hand under his arm and turned to the Sural. “I understand you have called a conference?”

  “I have,” replied the Sural.

  “To what purpose?”

  “The entertainment of my guest.”

  Laura found herself the center of attention. “Me?” she asked, flabbergasted.

  “Even so,” the Sural said.

  “I’m flattered, of course, but you don’t have to do anything like that for me!”

  “No one requires it of me.”

  “Don’t worry, Laura,” Marianne said in dry tones, “no one can make the Sural do anything he doesn’t want to do, or keep him from doing something that he does.” She lowered her voice to a stage whisper. “Just let him do it. It’s easier that way.”

  Laura laughed merrily. The Sural
shot Marianne a fond smile, and she beamed, a smug look on her face.

  “Exhibits from the city will begin to arrive in a few days,” the Sural continued. “We also have some coming from Parania. They will arrive a day or so before the conference begins.”

  “Parania?” Marianne asked. “Paranian is one of the Tolari languages I can speak.”

  “The Parania is sending her heir. You will perhaps have opportunity to practice his language with him.”

  “Are you quite certain you wish to allow other provinces into the stronghold so soon, high one?” Storaas asked. “It is little more than a season since the last attempt on your life.”

  “The attempt was on Marianne’s life,” the Sural corrected, “and yes, I am certain. I begin to see the Jorann’s wisdom in extending her protection to the Marann.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Six days later, the top floor of the stronghold was a riot of color. Laura hugged a wall to stay out of the way and watched, Marianne beside her, as artisans clad in dark purple directed laborers in deep green to arrange stunning works of art in previously empty rooms. Indigo-robed scholars, servants in black, musicians in mauve, and curious members of the stronghold staff in science brown, apothecary yellow, or Suralia blue – those were off-duty guards – wandered through the chaos.

  The exhibits themselves, however, were as subdued as the temperaments of the Suralians who had created them.

  “It’s wonderful to actually see the art you told me about when I was in orbit on the Alexander,” Laura said. “It looks like they’re arranging the exhibits in chronological order within each category. You can see the influence from earlier periods on later ones.”

  Marianne eyed her. “You’re quite the art critic.”

  “Ha! I’m not smart enough to be a critic. I’m ... well, I used to be an art student, but I couldn’t pass the academic courses.”

  “Really? You never mentioned that.”

  She shrugged. “I’m out of practice.”

  “There will be workshops – the Sural calls them sessions – at the conference,” Marianne said. “Maybe you should find one to attend.”

  Laura grinned. “Maybe. That might be fun.” Her smile drooped. “Not that I’d understand the instructor more than one word out of ... a hundred. Or a thousand.”

  “Do it anyway! It would take your mind off things. What kind of art did you do?”

  “Mostly charcoals.” She shrugged again. “Pencil. Pen and ink. Black and white media, basically, but charcoals are my favorite. I haven’t done much more than doodle in recent years. I get very ... absorbed ... when I work, or at least I used to, and being a ship’s wife didn’t leave me any time for that.”

  “Huh.”

  Laura gave Marianne a sidelong glance. “Do you draw?”

  Marianne snorted. “I can draw stick figures. Does that count?”

  Laura chuckled and turned back to examining a series of landscapes. “So beautiful,” she said under her breath.

  “I bet it would be easy to get you art supplies.”

  Laura shook her head. “Let’s see how things go at the workshops first. This is wonderful, though. It’s so kind of the Sural to go to all this trouble.”

  Marianne patted her shoulder and nodded agreement. “Let’s go get some lunch.”

  * * *

  “When are the Paranians arriving?” Marianne asked as she tore a roll in half and bit into it.

  “Tomorrow in the morning,” the Sural said.

  Laura looked up from the purple fruit she was dissecting. “Where’s Parania?”

  “Parania is on the other side of Tolar,” Kyza said. “When it is day here, it is night there.”

  “That’s a long way for them to come.” Laura frowned. “Do they have to travel through any enemy provinces to get here?”

  Kyza shook her head. “Artisans have no enemies.”

  “They’re not legal targets, so they can go anywhere,” Marianne added. “Only rulers and guards have to worry about being attacked.”

  The Sural sipped at his tea. “We do not worry.”

  Marianne let out an exasperated sigh. “You know what I mean.”

  “Do I?”

  “Pfft.”

  He chuckled and applied himself to a large vegetable. “Laura,” he said between bites, “to travel here they must pass through Vedelar, whose ruler is opposed to the Parania. While it is likely the Vedeli have a low regard for Paranians, they will do nothing to harm the artisans, the laborers traveling with them, or the art treasures they carry.”

  Laura nodded. “I see. That’s good then.”

  “Won’t the Parania’s heir have to be careful?” Marianne asked.

  “Yes,” the Sural said. “He must take a longer route and avoid Vedelar. He will be safe enough if he travels only through provinces allied with his.”

  “Who?” Laura nudged Marianne’s arm with an elbow. “What are you talking about?”

  “There’s a provincial heir coming,” Marianne said. “He’s the Tolari equivalent of a prince.”

  “A prince? This is going to be quite a conference.”

  “It definitely won’t be like anything I’ve seen the Sural put on before.”

  “I had—” The Sural stopped when a purple-clad artisan with an air of authority came into the room. “Ah. The leader of Suralia’s artisan caste.” He beckoned to the man and motioned him to the chair next to Thela.

  “My greetings,” the man said – in Suralian.

  Marianne shot a glance at the Sural. A slight twitch of his jaw confirmed what she suspected: the artisan leader spoke no English. Lovely, she thought.

  * * *

  Later, when the day was done, the hubbub on the top floor continued. Marianne slipped away to snuggle under the Sural’s arm while he read the few last reports of the day in her sitting room. When he closed one, she took the opportunity to ask, “Do Tolari draw with ... hmm. I don’t know the word. Charred wood.”

  “Charcoal,” he murmured. He scanned another file and eyed her with open curiosity. “Was there a purpose to your question?”

  “Apparently, Laura’s an artist.”

  He lowered his tablet and gave her his full attention. “Is she indeed? What are you thinking?”

  She shrugged. “I hope there’s a – what did you call it? Art session? I hope there’s one she’ll like, but she was pretty ambivalent when I suggested we get her some art supplies.”

  “If the conference rejuvenates her interest in her art, it is a simple matter to provide her with suitable media, beloved.”

  “But not so simple to find men who might interest her and also speak English.”

  “I admit to overlooking the language difficulty.”

  “I’m still glad you’re doing this for her,” she said, leaning her head on his shoulder. “She seems a little happier.”

  * * *

  Early the next morning, the day before the conference, the artisans from Parania began to arrive. The Sural collected Marianne after her morning exam and brought her to the audience room for the formal arrival of the Paranian heir. Storaas and Cena met them there, along with the rest of the Sural’s advisors. Marianne sat on one hip next to him on the dais, while the advisors arranged themselves in loose arcs on each side. They stopped talking when the guards near the doorway flickered to indicate that the Parania’s heir was about to enter the room.

  His robe was pale green and loose, unlike the fitted style worn by Suralians. Tailored for a warm climate, Marianne thought. He was tall and, surprisingly, grey-haired, and he moved with a deadly grace. His face was interesting rather than handsome, with wing-like black brows over dark, dancing eyes, a slightly hooked nose and ... She cast the Sural a glance. They both had the same mouth, but the set of the Paranian’s lips had a slight upward curve, suggesting he smiled frequently. She looked forward to getting to know him.

  As he drew near to the dais, the Sural stiffened beside her and slammed shut his barriers. Shock raced through th
eir bond. She shot him a quick glance; he was still as a stone, his face an impassive mask. Beyond him, on the floor beside the dais, Storaas also looked stony. Puzzled, she turned her attention back to the man in front of them. He bowed respectfully to the Sural and lowered himself to sit on his heels, waiting for permission to speak.

  The Sural stared for several long moments. “Speak, dear one,” he said, using the familiar term of address between high ones. He swallowed.

  Marianne fought to control her expression. The Sural was struggling to remain calm. He’s 290 years old, she thought. Nothing rattles him. What is going on?

  “You honor me, dear one,” the Paranian heir said. “I am Kazryth—” Marianne felt another shock shoot through him, beginning to mingle with anger “—legal heir to Parania. My mother greets you with warm regard and extends her gratitude for this opportunity to show Suralia the best of what Parania’s artisans have to offer.”

  “You honor us with your talent, Parania,” the Sural replied more firmly, his control returning. “Enjoy the hospitality of my stronghold.”

  Kazryth rose and bowed. “You honor us, Suralia.”

  “Are you yourself an artisan, Kazryth?” the Sural asked, before the Paranian could turn away.

  “No, dear one. I am a poet.”

  Marianne felt such a strong shock flood their bond that the room spun, and she collapsed onto her elbow. The Sural was immediately attentive, gesturing for Cena, who, as one of his medical advisors, had been sitting near Storaas.

  “Is your bond-partner well?” Kazryth asked. Genuine concern colored his voice.

  Cena had her scanner and medical tablet out, hovering over Marianne. She glanced at Kazryth with a curt nod before turning her full attention back to her patient.