It was a thing of beauty, that bow, a graceful curve of greenish wood covered with delicate, burned-in patterns. He aimed it at a post, thick as a man’s arm and tall as Laura’s shoulder, set before a row of low bushes perhaps twenty meters away, and let the arrow fly. A bush shuddered.
“A miss,” said a nearby guard.
The Paran’s lips thinned. He drew another arrow and nocked it.
Laura squinted at the target, a wooden cube the size of a man’s fist, set atop the post. “How are you supposed to hit that thing?” she asked.
“With great skill.” Another arrow flew. It hit the post and splintered, the force of its impact knocking the cube from its perch.
Laura blew a stray hair off her face. “Almost.”
The Paran gave her a sidelong glance and said nothing, while a guard sprinted off to replace the target. Offering a sheepish grin, she slunk away and went back into the keep before she could irritate him further.
Once inside, she headed for the library.
The soft scuffing of her slippers against the floor matting echoed off the walls. She wandered over to her easel, and the emptiness of the room gripped her heart and pulled. The old stone sculptor’s rudely-sketched face gazed out at her.
“Where are you now?” she whispered.
From out of nowhere, masculine satisfaction lifted her mood, and she wandered over to a window that overlooked the garden. The Paran stood near the post, holding the cube with an arrow sticking into it, talking to a guard. He wrenched the arrow out and stuck his small finger in the hole.
Laura grinned to herself. Truth to tell, it had been a relief to find him doing something other than work. She placed a flat palm against the window and sent a pulse of affection along their pair-bond. His head swiveled toward her, half a smile on his face.
“It gets better,” she murmured. “It takes time, and we never stop missing them, but it does get better.”
* * *
The Monral exited the transport pod in his city’s transit hub, camouflaged guards fanning out around him. He ignored them, along with the people who turned to bow and back out of the way, and strode straight through the crowd. Confusion flared behind him. He ignored that, as well.
The music hall sat on the north side of the large square it formed with the arts center, the science towers, and the scholars’ archives. The ramp from the underground tunnels opened at one corner, next to the archival libraries. The Monral emerged into the sunlight and headed across the plaza, thinking through what he knew of Sharana’s taste in music.
The leader of Monralar’s musician caste met him at the door with a deep bow. Wearing a knee-length, deep mauve robe, she projected the serene confidence of an accomplished performer. She folded her hands and flashed an expectant smile.
“Speak,” he said.
“You honor us, high one.” Her voice was soft and melodious.
“Tell me who is immediately available to perform at the stronghold.”
The woman’s eyebrows rose. “I must consult my records. Will you come with me?”
He nodded and followed her into a study that looked as if it doubled as a practice room. A large harp occupied one corner, and an explosion of paper and tuning tools covered the desk. As he took a seat in one of the two chairs facing it, the caste leader shoved piles of music-covered sheets aside to access her console.
After a moment, she looked up. “High one, you need not have come here. I am happy to appear at your summons.”
“I did not wish my beloved to know of this.” …And both he and Sharana needed the slight respite the distance from each other provided.
“Ah, I—”
“Who is available of her favorites?”
The woman focused her attention on her console. “Scholar Sharana has often requested the company of Dazyn and Sylindra,” she murmured. “They are available for the next hand of days, if they are willing.”
“Convince them to agree.”
Wide eyes darted to his. She licked her lips. “High one—”
“My bond-partner is… distressed,” he said, cutting off the coming objection. “I wish to coax her into a more positive mood with music she cannot resist.”
The musician nodded slowly. “I will speak with them. They will perhaps give a favorable response to such an argument.”
“See that they do.”
Chapter Fourteen
The Monral sent Sharana’s apothecary to notify her of the concert. This, it seemed, did not please his beloved. He winced at the mix of negative emotion coming from her—loneliness, anger, feelings of betrayal—and shook his head. Her turmoil had disrupted his work through the morning and into the afternoon, and this particular upsurge of emotional pain had interrupted his—fourth? fifth?—reading of the report on his tablet. He tossed the thing across his desk, quelling the exasperation simmering in his belly, and reached through their bond with affection and caring.
She pushed him away.
His eyes stung. This had to stop.
A soft exhale issued from a male throat. The Monral looked up and frowned. The seneschal stood before his desk, stiff with disapproval. The difficulty with Sharana had so diverted his attention he could not remember when the man entered the room.
“Speak,” he said.
“The musicians wish to relocate their concert to the garden.”
He pinched the bridge of his nose, then rubbed his eyebrows. “Why the garden?”
“The moon enters Tolar’s shadow this evening. They say they wish to use the event to enhance their performance.”
The Monral pressed his lips together. This morning, it had been the shape of the seating in the audience room that displeased them. They had insisted the servants rearrange the floor matting. Then, at the midday meal, they had expressed dissatisfaction with the banners on the walls, noting that such a large number of the heavy standards would affect the room’s sound qualities in a negative way, and could they not be relocated elsewhere? Now, after the seneschal had directed the servants to take down most of the banners and rearranged the seating once more, they decided to abandon the audience room altogether. The musicians, it seemed, wanted to make known their displeasure at his coercion.
If only the planetary weather control could call up rain on short notice. He ground his teeth.
“Tell the honored musicians,” he said, clipping his words, “they will perform in the audience room, which is already prepared and which has proven satisfactory to them in the past. They will not disturb you, or the servants, or my work with any more demands. If they do, they will never perform in Monralar again.”
The seneschal bowed and left. The Monral stared at a spot on the desk, Sharana’s misery gripping his heart. Some of his people rejected pair-bonding, preferring instead to take a long-term or even life-long lover. The reasoning for this mentioned only the dangers of pair-bonding—should one of a bonded pair die, the other usually did as well. He had scoffed at those considerations. No one spoke of the difficulties created by a bond-partner’s rejection.
He might have listened if they had.
Sharana’s mood changed to emptiness, and he relaxed into his chair. As much as he wished she could feel something positive in anticipation of music she loved, the numbness provided a welcome change. He could get some work done.
It seemed she would attend the concert, and he would see her beloved face. His spirits lifting, he turned to the next task on his agenda.
* * *
Laura concentrated on maintaining her barriers and not laughing. If she had to describe Azana’s daughter in one word, that word would be brilliant. Allowed another word, she would choose disaster.
The gawky six-year-old—thirteen in Earth years—even wore her robe at odd angles. She rushed to and fro between the two astronomical viewers she had set up on the stronghold roof, the smaller a tube about as wide as a man’s thigh and the other a blocky octagonal cylinder about half again as long. She tripped and, by some miracle, managed neither
to fall nor to knock over either delicate instrument.
Azana breathed an audible sigh of relief. “Denara, slow your pace.”
“But Mother—”
“Denara.”
Laura stifled a laugh. For the moment, Azana kept her empathic fingers out of Denara, allowing her to control herself. The girl took a deep breath.
“Mother, the moon’s traverse begins soon. I must hurry.”
“You must take care. Damaged instruments will not serve you.”
Denara’s head and shoulders slumped. “Yes, Mother,” she said, glancing at Azana from under her eyebrows. She muttered something Laura couldn’t hear.
“Did you say something, daughter?”
“Only flutter chatter.”
“You are quite sure you do not wish my assistance?”
“I am sure, Mother.”
Azana sighed and shook her head, but Denara continued setting up with less rush and more attention. Azana turned toward Laura.
“And you had two daughters?” she asked. “How did you not go mad?”
Laura snorted. “I—” She interrupted herself. “The Paran is coming up the stairs.”
Denara emitted a squeak and dropped a small metal fitting. Azana whirled, this time reaching into her daughter to help her control her nervousness.
The Paran’s head appeared at the corner of the roof. His eyes flicked from one occupant to another, taking in their moods, then said, “In truth, I have never yet banished a child.” He offered the girl a friendly smile as he emerged fully from the stairwell, carrying a folded blanket over one arm. A servant followed, bearing a steaming carafe of fragrant tea on a tray with mugs.
“Ooh!” Laura chirped, and hurried over to avail herself of the Paran’s thoughtfulness.
Denara, all spiky anxiety now, bowed to the Paran. “High one,” she said, somehow managing to keep her voice clear. Laura shot a glance at Azana, who had a tight empathic rein on Denara. “You honor us.”
He smiled again. “Tell me your purpose tonight.” He chose a spot near the low retaining wall around the roof’s edge and snapped the blanket out flat. It covered enough of the roof’s pale stone to seat all of them.
“My tutors require me to record the moon’s traverse through Tolar’s shadow this night,” Denara said. “Tomorrow in the morning I must narrate the recording for them, naming each phase of the event and explaining the cyclic variations in refractive density.”
The Paran dropped down onto one end of the blanket, sitting with his arms draped about his knees. Laura snuggled against him, sipping her tea. Azana took a seat on the other end with two mugs of the stuff, one lifted to her lips.
“And why two instruments?” he asked.
“The larger one records spectral variations, and the other is for direct viewing. If you wish, high one, we can use the smaller one to view the moon or any other object we like until the event begins.”
“Excellent!”
“What about my home star, Sol?” Laura asked slowly, in Paranian. “May we look at that?”
Denara took a breath, then knitted her eyebrows together and frowned.
“Nivadaona,” the Paran said. “Sol is the human word for it.”
The girl set about adjusting the smaller instrument, while Laura searched the sky for the bright stars the Paran had taught her lay on a line with Earth’s sun. When she found the dim star between them, she pointed.
“There,” she said.
Denara nodded without looking up. The Paran slipped an arm around Laura.
“So, um,” she said. “How was your day? You seemed preoccupied.”
“Negotiations occupied much of my time,” he replied.
“With your coalition?”
“What is left of it.”
She grimaced. “Why did your allies abandon you?”
“Abandon is not the correct term,” he replied. “Stability and continuity, or the promise of it across generations, counts for much. Monralar has it. I no longer do.” He shrugged. “It is the Game. Perhaps the child you carry will lift Parania back to prominence.”
“If he is anything like my father, he will.”
“It could happen that scientific breakthroughs would also gain us influence,” Azana said. “Human maths are governed by laws formulated from a completely different ontological viewpoint. They may spark conceptual leaps in our own science.”
“Whatever that means.”
The Paran chuckled.
“Is that because it was the Benefactors what gave us our maths?” Denara asked.
Azana nodded. “Likely.”
“Where did your Benefactors go?” Laura asked.
“We do not know,” the Paran replied. “Some historians believe they left observation devices, but we have not identified any on Tolar or in orbit.”
Denara plopped onto the blanket near her mother. “Maybe they are on the moon!”
“Detailed scans reveal nothing,” Azana replied.
“Huh.” Laura set aside her tea mug and scrambled to her feet. “Is this pointing at Sol now?”
* * *
The Monral gazed about the audience room. Groups from the city had arrived to join the staff gathered in the audience room for the concert and filled the room to capacity; the musicians he had engaged, even if against their will, were popular. He stood on his dais and gazed at the milling crowd, the corners of his mouth twitching upward. The music would begin soon.
And he would see Sharana.
Even if she refused to take her proper place on the dais, which he believed likely, she would still share this space with him. The music, good or bad, mattered less than the opportunity it provided to entice her here, where he could see her face and drink in her presence. Seeing him would chip away at the ice surrounding her heart. It must.
Behind him, his son climbed the three shallow steps onto the dais and took his place.
“Father,” he said, as the Monral turned to face him.
“Son. What news?”
“She will not come.”
The Monral frowned. “She must. She is resigned to it. You spoke to her?”
His son shook his head. “She refused to admit me to her quarters.”
“Then she will come.”
“Father—”
“I know her heart. She will come.”
Farric lifted a shoulder and knelt on the dais matting to sit on his heels. A faint sigh escaped him. “Yes, Father.”
The Monral turned back to face the empty space reserved for the musicians. He scanned the crowd, but he well knew Sharana remained, filled with resignation, in her apartments. She would leave them at any moment. His heart lifted at the thought, and a smile crept onto his face. He lowered himself to join his son on the matting.
A guard flickered into sight, made a series of gestures, and disappeared again. It seemed that the musicians had invented a delay, and sent their apologies by means of the guard.
They dare! They chanced much to risk his anger. They had already pushed as far as he would tolerate. He would make sure they regretted it.
Sharana’s distress at his anger pierced him, forcing him to suppress a wince. Pushing down the turmoil, he fought to calm himself and sent her affection and welcome through their bond. She did not push him away, but neither did she accept what he offered.
He judged this a good sign.
A low murmuring of conversation began as the crowd began to grow restless, a sign that Dazyn and Sylindra risked their own reputation as well as his anger. Moments later, the guard flickered once more, and the musicians walked in, carrying their instruments.
Sharana remained in her apartments.
The Monral stopped breathing. His son had been correct. As Dazyn began to play a small curve harp, the Monral closed his barriers as much as he was able—not completely, alas—and shoved the crashing, searing rejection out of his mind. He concentrated on the music now, using its technical perfection as a means to avoid conscious thought.
The c
oncert continued. Dazyn and Sylindra delivered a performance brilliant on a technical level but disappointing on an empathic one. It was, no doubt, a further display of their displeasure, but it provided the lifeline he needed. Had the musicians used their gift to play the emotions of the audience in the same way they plied the strings of their instruments, he could not have remained impassive in the face of Sharana’s rebuff. Perhaps he would not ruin them after all.
Nevertheless, he stood as the last note fell and left the audience room, brushing past the performers without a word or a glance. Behind him, Farric’s voice rose, his heir stepping in to fulfill the ordinary forms of etiquette. Anger at the pair of musicians fueled his pace down the main corridor to the family wing, and not until the door of his quarters closed behind him did he sink to the floor and sob.
* * *
The Monral jolted awake, blinking at the wrong ceiling, his tablet chiming and buzzing in its pocket. With a groan, he pulled it out, silenced it, and dropped it on the floor.
On the floor?
He pushed himself up on one elbow. On the other side of the windows, the sun hung halfway up the sky. He’d fallen asleep on a divan in his sitting room, after… He glanced at a nearby low table sporting a variety of empty bottles. Some looked familiar. The pounding in his head suggested he’d emptied all of them.
He shoved himself the rest of the way to a sitting position and scooped the tablet off the floor to examine it. The signal that had awakened him originated from the stronghold’s communications plexus—the odalli from Central Command, Adeline Russell, had sent him a message. He dropped the tablet back on the floor mats. It could wait. Stumbling to his peds with another groan, he pulled off his robe and trousers and headed for the bathing area.
The sun hung a little farther up the sky when he re-emerged, clean and fresh-robed, hair brushed and re-knotted. The servants had removed the bottles, and with it the evidence of his overindulgence. He dropped into a chair, rubbing his temples with both hands. The turmoil with Sharana bloomed.
With a sigh, he reached for the tablet, which had replaced the bottles on the low table. A sigil indicated waiting reports. He rubbed his eyes with his free hand and began to navigate through the tablet’s menus. Menus. Such an odalli idea. But then, the tablets, and the larger consoles, were odalli inventions, among the few alien ideas to take hold on Tolar. He himself preferred the Smoke.
The Fall Page 13
