by Sharon Lee
Tor An opened his eyes. “What will you eat for dinner?” he asked, and Jela gave him a comfortable smile.
“I’ll just have a ration bar while I work,” he said easily. “It’s what I’m used to.”
Exhaustion, youth and hunger were Jela’s allies, but for a long moment, he thought they wouldn’t be enough. Then the boy inclined his head, moved down-counter and lifted the lid off of the tray.
* * *
TOR AN LOOKED UP from the grid, purple eyes bleak.
“These equations are rather . . . dense, are they not?”
Jela looked at him with sympathy. “The process for folding up bits of the galaxy and putting them away in some other alternity takes some describing,” he said. “I’ve been studying those numbers for . . . a good long while, now, I’m almost sure I’ve got the major points mastered.”
“Ah.” The boy touched the frame. “May I have the use of this?”
Jela waved a hand. “It’s yours,” he said—and waited. He was in his usual place by the tree; Tor An was cross-legged atop the counter, cat on one knee, grid balanced precariously on the other.
“I think,” he said, “that you had better tell me what place Scholar tay’Nordif has in your mission. Is it she who has formulated these equations you seek?”
The boy knew how to ask a question, Jela thought, and took a moment to resettle himself against the wall and breathe in a good, deep breath of tree-filtered air.
“Scholar tay’Nordif,” he said, then, because he had to make some start or risk losing whatever small trust he’d managed to instill in the lad— “Scholar tay’Nordif is part of the effort to recover the equations. Without her, I wouldn’t have been able to gain access to the Tower. She provides misdirection and cover. This operation depends on her abilities. She—” He closed his eyes, considering the tangle of it all—and what well-mannered and respectful boy from out of a well-mannered and respectful trading family would believe in aelantaza, or line edits, or the Uncle, or—
“Why,” Tor An asked, “does the scholar believe you to be a kobold?”
Jela sighed and produced the most believable part-truth he had to hand.
“There are . . . certain protocols available, which . . . help certain people to believe things other than what they usually know to be true,” he said slowly. “The lady you see here as Scholar tay’Nordif is in fact my pilot and my partner. She volunteered to subscribe to those protocols, in order that the mission have the best chance of success.”
Tor An gave that grave consideration as he stroked the cat on his knee.
“Is she a soldier, then?” He asked finally.
“We’re all soldiers,” Jela said, “in the last effort to defeat the sheriekas. But, no—if by ‘soldier’ you mean to ask if she’s enrolled in the military. She’s a volunteer, like I said. The best damn’ pilot I’ve ever seen—” His eyes stung, and the room wavered a little before he blinked them clear.
“A pilot,” he said again, “and a true, courageous friend. The safety of the galaxy rests on her, Pilot, and I’ll tell you straight out that I would rather it was her than anyone else I can name.”
TOR AN WAS IN HIS garden. That bothered him momentarily—but then he remembered that Melni, who had the tutoring of him and Cor Win in the afternoons, had been called to a Family Meeting. He was supposed to be reading trade protocol, and it would go badly for him if he failed of being the master of the assigned chapter by dinner—but the breeze wafting in the open window had tempted him to step outside for just a little while, and walk down to garden’s end to visit his tree.
The zang flowers were blooming, their tiny blue and green blossoms like so many stars against the pale yellow grass. He was conscious of a feeling of deep approval as he skipped down the path, pleased that the plants had been given leave to grow as they would, not tamed and confined, as were the showier, costlier plants the gardeners tended in the public gardens at the front of the house. The back garden was for children, and for elders, a comfort—and an occasional temptation for shirking one’s lessons.
The grass flowed like water beneath the subtle wind, and he could hear the bell he’d hung in the piata tree’s branches. A deep breath brought the taste of leaf and bloom onto his tongue—and there before him was the piata, its branches heavy with fruit. As he approached, one of the high branches dipped down toward him. He raised cupped hands and a fruit dropped into his palms.
“Thank you,” he murmured, and climbed up onto the boulder, settling his back against the warm silver bark as he leisurely ate his fruit. Eventually, he closed his eyes, and dozed, knowing himself safe, cherished, and—
A chime sounded. Tor An stirred, and settled more comfortably, for surely it was only the bell high up in the piata’s limbs—
The chime sounded again, and he gasped into wakefulness, the dream shattering around him, and a great weight upon his chest—which was only the orange cat, Lucky. Half-laughing, Tor An set the animal aside, ignoring the glare of betrayal, untangled himself from the blanket, and gained his feet as the chime sounded a third time.
“A moment!” he called and stepped forward, careful in the dimness of the strange room. Jela was snoring against the wall beneath the scholar’s plant, and Tor An spared a moment’s wonder for a pilot who could sleep through such a din, then forgot about him as he opened the door.
Scholar tay’Nordif pitched into his arms.
He caught her, though they were nearly of a height, and bore her clumsily to the chair, kicking the borrowed blanket out of his path. He got her seated, snatched the blanket up, shook it out, and draped it over her shoulders before dropping to one knee by her side, peering into her shadowed face.
“Scholar?”
She put a slim hand against his shoulder, fingers light and trembling.
“A moment, of your goodness, Pilot,” she murmured. “I—I had hoped the effects of the—of the duel would have dissipated by now . . .”
“Did they not care for you?” he demanded, outraged. Dueling stick injuries were not trivial and the punishment she had taken . . .
“Nay, nay. Mine colleagues were everything that is kind and accommodating. Surely, vel’Anbrek fetched me a chair and with her own hands dea’San brought me a glass of wine—and another, as well, insisting that I must rebuild my reserves. Truly, they would allow me to do nothing, but must needs serve and cosset me. Many came to the chair in which I rested, and spoke for a moment, showing such concern . . . ‘Twas my own folly, that I thought myself sufficiently recovered that I declined Prime Chair’s kind offer of escort to my room . . .”
She lifted her head, and gave him a brave smile, the misty green eyes awash with tears. Her face was too pale, and showed two livid marks upon her right cheek.
“He never struck you in the face!” Tor An cried, outraged over again.
“Peace, Pilot. Scholar tel’Elyd felt himself very ill-used. Indeed, he believed that I had not only dismissed him as a colleague, but held him at less value than a kobold.” She laughed, breathily. “Who would not be outraged at such?”
“Scholar—”
“A moment, I beg you.” With an effort, she straightened on the chair, and took her hand from his shoulder, a loss he felt keenly. He sat back on his heels as the silence grew, and he began to wonder if perhaps she had taken lasting harm from—
“I know that you owe me nothing, Pilot,” she said finally. “Indeed, it is I who owe you the remainder of your fee. But, I wonder if you would be willing to accept another commission from me.”
Tor An opened his mouth to tell her that he had never taken any commission from her, but before he could frame the words, she had pushed on.
“I hold no secrets from you, Pilot,” she said, her hands fisted on her lap. “I have enemies—powerful enemies—among those who are said to be my colleagues. Even now, there are those who seek to devalue what credit I hold with our department’s master, whose own student I had been, and whose work set me on the path to finding my ow
n. The Prime Chair—you would not believe such infamy! Indeed, I scarce believe it myself and I have studied the principles of scholarship as nearly as I have studied within my own discipline, for I will succeed! My work is too important to be buried as the result of some ill-considered proving! I—my work can save lives, Pilot! Countless lives! Whole star systems might be snatched from the jaws of entropy!”
Tor An’s head was spinning. He was fairly certain that the scholar was raving, yet he wanted nothing else but to aid her in whatever way she asked. Which, considering his early evening conversation with Jela, whose own story had contained certain thinly covered gaps of logic—
He sent a quick glance aside, but to all appearances, Captain Jela slumbered still beneath the tree.
“Will you aid me, Pilot?” Scholar tay’Nordif asked, breathlessly.
As if there could be a question! So fragile and vulnerable a lady, who further held the key that would preserve others from the Ringstars’ fate. Except, he remembered suddenly, that didn’t entirely align with Jela’s insistence that the scholar was no scholar at all, but a pretender who had volunteered to run interference while the soldier undertook the real labor of locating the—
“Pilot?”
Tor An sighed. “Jela—” he began, fighting the impulse to pledge his life to her purpose.
The scholar stared at him blankly. “Jela? Pay no attention to Jela, Pilot. He’s less aware than—than the cat!”
As if on cue, the very cat leapt into her lap, burbling. The scholar put her arms around it and buried her poor, abused face in his fur.
Tor An took a careful breath. “What is it,” he asked carefully, “you would have me do for you?”
The scholar lifted her face and smiled at him and his heart lifted.
“A small thing, Pilot, I assure you! It is necessary that I undo the harm that mine enemies have done. I must assure my master that I am true and hold him in no less esteem now than when I sat at his feet and snatched the pearls of wisdom as they fell from his lips. The best way to do this, of course, is to send a gift.” She looked at him expectantly.
Tor An blinked. “A gift,” he repeated.
“Indeed! And here we may marvel anew at my patron’s wisdom and foresight! For I will tell you that I did say to her, when she would press upon me the specimen she had engineered with her own hands and its keeper-kobold—When I did protest and ask what a poor scholar might do with such trappings of wealth and plenty, do you know what she said to me, Pilot? Why she said, ‘I have faith, Maelyn, that you will find a good use for both.’” She smiled at him again, her chin resting on the cat’s head.
“A good use for both,” she repeated. “And so I have found an excellent use for both! They shall be my gift to Master dea’Syl, which will assure him of my constancy and my unflagging respect.”
“You mean to make your master a gift of Jela and, and the tree?” Tor An said slowly.
“Certainly!” The scholar said. “The tree is a worthy gift—indeed, I have its pedigree, which you will of course bear with you and place into the master’s own hands.”
“And—Jela?” Tor An inquired.
“Jela tends the tree,” the scholar said patiently. “It is the role for which it was designed. Surely, you don’t expect that Master dea’Syl will wish to get dirt under his fingernails from tending a plant? Of course not,” she answered her own question. “So it is quite settled. Tomorrow, when I betake myself to my office and my work, you shall bear the tree—Jela, of course, will carry it—with its pedigree and the letter I shall write for you, in secrecy, to Master dea’Syl. Will you do this for me, Pilot? I swear you will be well-rewarded.”
“I wonder,” he said, somewhat breathlessly, “how I will find my way . . . secretly . . . to Master dea’Syl.”
“Ah, that is the fortunate circumstance! Scholar vel’Anbrek will serve as your guide. You will meet him at the proving grounds tomorrow morning as the Day Bell sounds. He will take you by the quiet ways to the master’s rooms.”
“I—see,” he said, though he was moderately certain that he did not. He shot another look at the slumbering soldier, though how anyone could sleep through—and there, a broad hand was outlined against the shadow, fingers spelling out say yes.
Tor An cleared his throat and brought his gaze back to the scholar. The color had returned to her face, though the shock-marks still showed livid.
“I will be happy to perform this service for you, Scholar,” he said, softly.
TWELVE
Elsewhen and Otherwhere
THEY RAN, ROOL SIFTING the ley lines so quickly they blurred into a single strand of event, all possibility melded to one purpose. He trusted her to keep them viable as they phased from plane to plane and concentrated upon the pattern of the lines, choosing this one, rejecting that, sorting consequences at white-hot speed.
There! He snatched a line, whipping them into the seventh plane, snatched another, phased to the third, glissaded to the fifth. The lines sang about them as small probabilities shifted, the sick were healed, the dead were raised, water was turned into wine.
And still the Shadow pursued them. Suns froze where it fell; planets trembled in their orbits. The fabric of space stretched thin, the ley lines themselves beginning to attenuate.
Rool chose a slender line describing a pocket possibility, rode it to the end, dropped to the fourth plane and doubled back, directly through the tattered skirts of Shadow.
It was a bold move—very nearly too bold. Cold touched him, burning his essence as a kiss of frost will blacken a flower. At the core of his being, he heard her scream.
Blindly, he chose a line, another, a third—phased, and fell to his knees onto silken silt, her slender body cradled in his arms.
“Love?”
Her eyes fluttered, amber and dazed.
“You must not risk yourself,” she breathed.
He laughed, short and bitter, and lowered her onto the soft silt.
“I risk myself and wound my heart,” he said. “Quickly, do what you must to replenish your essence. We dare not—”
She extended a thin hand, placed cool fingers against his lips.
“Hush. What place is this?”
He lifted his head, blinking in the glare of the local star—and again as the breeze flung grit into his face. All around was desolation—rock, wind, sand. Three paces to the right of their resting place lay a huge, bleached trunk, the stubs of what had once been mighty branches half-buried in the silt.
“The homeworld of the ssussdriad, or I am a natural man,” he murmured, and looked into her dear eyes. “Art ready, love? The Iloheen will not be long behind us.”
“I am ready, yes,” she said softly, and took his hand, weaving her small fingers between his.
He bent his head and kissed her small hand. “We phase, then,” he said, and gathered himself, noting as he did that the Shadow’s kiss had done more damage than he had—
“No.” Her will rang across his, anchoring him to the physical. “Here. This place. This time. This plane.”
He looked at her, dread filling him; raised his head and looked out over the desert once more. Sterile, dust-shrouded, devoid of any tiniest flicker of life . . .
“I cannot prevail here,” he whispered.
She laughed, high and gay and sweet. “Of course you cannot,” she said. “And neither can I.”
“Love—” he reached for her even as he extended his awareness, searching for the shape of a likely line—
Static filled his senses. He snapped back wholly to the dead world, the dying sun, the gritty breeze.
“We are found,” he said, and his lady smiled.
“The great Iloheen comes to us,” she murmured. “Help me to rise.”
He lifted her to her feet, and braced her while she gained her balance.
“Behind me now,” she said, “and cede yourself to me.”
He stepped back, took one deep breath of sand-filled air, closed his physical eyes, and cent
ered. Before him, glowing gold within the ether, was the channel. He threw open the doors of his heart, and sent his essence to her in a tide of living green.
Static distorted the galaxy. The dying sun flared through a quick rainbow of color, growing large and orange. The gritty breeze gusted and died.
A Shadow fell over the land.
Foolish halfling, the Iloheen sent. Didst think to elude ME?
The cold grew more bitter still, until the very light froze in its path, and Rool Tiazan tasted the tang of oblivion. His lady, bold and courageous, held them aloof, his energy pooled and secret behind her shields.
Have you no answer for the one who gave you life? The Iloheen’s thought struck her shields like a storm of comets—yet they held. They held. And still she kept their true seeming hidden, showing them obdurate and dull, waiting . . .
Be unmade, then, flawed and treacherous child!
Darkness fell. The stars froze, screaming, in their courses. The ley lines shriveled, sublimating into the blackness. Rool Tiazan felt his body begin to unravel, the golden channel that linked him, essence-to-essence with she whom defined the universe and all that was good among the planes of existence—the golden link decayed, frayed, un—
In the darkness of unmaking, his lady dropped her shields.
A lance of pure light opposed the darkness. The stars sang hosanna; the fog dissipated; and the ley lines reformed, binding the universe and all that lived into the net of possibility. Rool Tiazan felt his heart stutter into rhythm, and drew a breath of warm, sweet air.
Darkness thrust, light countered—fire rained in frozen flames at the congruence of their fields.
Again, darkness struck. The light feinted, twisted—and struck! The Iloheen howled, and withdrew, winding its dark energies into one thick skein of oblivion.
His lady, cool and slender blade of light, closed the channel that linked them.
Rool Tiazan screamed as the Iloheen’s blow gathered and fell; saw the brave blade rise to meet it—
