by Sharon
Instead, she felt warm breath stir the hairs at her temple an instant before his lips pressed there.
“I love you,” he said again, wonderful, seductive voice shaking with passion. He stroked her hair back with tender fingers, kissed the edge of her ear. “Anne … “
“Er Thom.” Her own voice was anything but steady. “Er Thom, you gave me your word … “
She could have sworn she felt the jolt go through him, the icy jag of sanity that broke the flaming fascination of desire for the instant he required to jerk back and away, coming to his feet in a blur of motion—and going entirely still, hands firmly behind his back.
“Oh, gods.”
Anne shuddered, finding his abrupt absence less easement than added torment. What is this? she asked herself, for the dozenth time since yesterday. She had felt a rapport with Er Thom yos’Galan almost from the first. But this—compulsion—reminded her of the ancient stories of the Sidhe, the Faerie Lords of old Terra, and the enchantments they wove to ensnare mere mortals …
Except one sight of Er Thom’s sweat-damp face and anguished eyes proved beyond human doubt that if this was enchantment, then he was netted as tightly as she.
She let out the breath she hadn’t known she was holding and straightened against the cushions. “Er Thom … “
He bowed, effectively cutting her off. “Anne, only think,” he said quickly, his accent more pronounced than she had ever heard it. “You say you will be traveling to Liad, that there is duty owed one who has died. What better than to travel with one who is your friend, to guest in the house of your son’s kin for as long as you like? Everything shall be as you wish—” He bit his lip and glanced sharply away, then back.
“If you do not wish us to wed, why then, there is nothing more to be said. I—certainly I cannot know your necessities. However, you must know that my necessities require our son to show his face to the delm no later than the second day of the next relumma—three Standard weeks, as you had said.” He moved his hands, showing her palms, fingers spread wide, concealing nothing.
“I tell you all,” he said, the pace of his words slowing somewhat. “Anne. I do not wish to wound you, or to frighten you, or to steal our son away from you. But he must be brought to the delm. He is yos’Galan! Provision must be made—and yourself! Will you stand alone and without allies, having borne a child to Korval?”
Anne stared, breathless with hearing him out. “Is that—dangerous?” she asked.
“Dangerous?” Er Thom repeated, blankly. He moved a hand, a gesture of tossing aside. “Ah, bah! It is games of melant’i. Nothing to alarm one who is prudent.” He tipped his head, bit his lip as if unsure how to continue.
“It is prudent to gather allies,” he said at last and Anne heard the exquisite care he took now, lest he offend her. “Korval is not negligible, you understand. And the child is yos’Galan. None can deny basis for alliance. The marriage I—wished for—would have brought you immediately into a case of—of—intended alliance. You would have been seen to be under the Dragon’s wing now, rather than waiting upon the trip to Liad and the drawing up of—other—contracts.” He took a deep breath, and met her eyes, his own wide and guileless.
“It distresses me to see you in peril,” he said, very softly, “when I have the means and the—desire—to give you protection.”
“I—see,” she managed, around the hammering of her heart. She shook her head in a futile effort to clear it and made a grab for common sense. This was University Central, after all: Haven of scholars and students and other servants of odd knowledge and arcane thought.
“No one’s likely to come after my head here,” she told him, meaning it for comfort and an ease to the distress he showed her plainly, and added a phrase with a flavor of High Liaden: “Thank you for your care, Er Thom.”
He hesitated, then bowed acceptance of her decision, or so she thought.
“In three Standard weeks,” he said, straightening, “I shall pilot our son and yourself to Solcintra. We shall all three go to the delm and Shan shall be Seen. After, I shall take you to Trealla Fantrol—the house of yos’Galan—where you may guest until your duty to your friend has been completed.”
It made sense, even if it was phrased rather autocratically. It solved her transportation and living problems. It solved Er Thom’s pressing need to have the newly-discovered yos’Galan added to clan Korval’s internal census.
It did not solve her disinclination for having the order of her life disrupted for as long as two months while she tried to sort out a colleague’s private working notes.
And it certainly did not solve the fact that she would be staying those two months on Liad—in Solcintra, called “The City of Jewels” for the standard of wealth enjoyed by its citizens. At—Trealla Fantrol—she might well be Er Thom yos’Galan’s honored guest and recipient of every grace the House could provide. But in Solcintra she would be a lone Terran in the company of Liadens, with their fierce competitiveness and Liad-centric ways—
… in a society where the phrase, “Rag-mannered as a Terran,” enjoyed current—and frequent—usage.
“I had thought perhaps of—not—going to Liad,” Anne began, slowly. “It might be just as useful for me to copy my old letters to Jin Del—Scholar yo’Kera—and send them to his colleague. That way she—”
The doorbell chimed—and again, insistent.
“At this hour?” Anne was already moving, unaware that Er Thom had moved with her until he caught her hand, pulling her a step back from the widening door.
“Er Thom—”
“Anne!” Jerzy all but fell into her arms. “You’re here! You’re safe! Gods, gods—the whole damn pantheon! Down at the Quad S Tavern when the news came over—terrified you’d stayed late to grade exams—too stupid to find a call box—” He sagged against her shoulder and let a theatrical sigh shudder through him before he lifted his head to grin at Er Thom.
“Evening, Mr. yos’Galan.”
Er Thom inclined his head. “Good evening, Jerzy Entaglia,” he said gravely. “Is there a reason why Anne should—not—be safe?”
Jerzy blinked, straightening away from Anne’s support and glancing from her to Er Thom. “You didn’t hear?” he asked, eyes going back to Anne. “The bulletin, right in the middle of the—” He stared around the room, spied the dark screen. “Guess not. Well, all that exercise for nothing.”
“Heard what?” Anne demanded. “Jerzy, it’s past midnight! If this is one of your—”
“My jokes? No joke.” He grabbed her hand, ugly face entirely serious. “Comp Ling’s gone. The whole back corner of the Language Block blew sky-high, two hours ago.”
PETRELLA YOS’GALAN eyed the child of her deceased twin with a noticeable lack of warmth.
“Felicitations, is it?” she said ill-temperedly. “And to what event does my delm desire me to attach felicity? The continued absence of my heir, perhaps? Or the visit from Delm Nexon this morning, inquiring of that same heir’s health? Or shall I find joy in the empty nursery and the absence of a child to continue the Line?”
Daav had a sip of red wine. “Well, certainly you may rejoice in any such that may move you,” he said agreeably. “I had only meant to bring tidings of my cha’leket’s return on the second day of the next relumma.”
“Three days later than the delm’s deadline,” she said with asperity. “As I am certain the delm recalls, having so—long—a memory.”
He grinned. “Well-thrown, Aunt Petrella! But as it happens, your heir begged the delm’s grace and received the extension, as insisting on the previous timeframe would have considerably inconvenienced the guest.”
“Ah, the felicity not only of the return of one’s son, but also the inestimable joy of a guest!” Petrella flung her hand high in mock jubilation. “How fortunate for the House, indeed. Is one to know more of the guest, I wonder? For the universe, you understand, is a-bursting with potential guests.”
“Why, so it is!” Daav said, much struck
by this viewpoint. “I had not considered it thus, but I believe you are correct, ma’am! How piquant, to be sure: An entire universe, panting to guest with Korval!”
“Yes, very good,” she returned. “Play the fool, do, and amuse yourself at an old woman’s expense. I note that details regarding the guest have not come forth.”
He moved his shoulders. “The guest is a scholar of some repute.”
“More delight,” his aunt said acidly. “A scholar, to our honor! As if there were any more rag-mannered, saving only a—”
“A Terran scholar,” Daav interrupted gently. He assayed another sip of the excellent red. “You may wish to remodel the Ambassadorial Suite.”
Petrella was staring. “A Terran scholar?”
“Indeed, yes,” her nephew said, and amplified: “A scholar who also happens—a mere accident of birth, I assure you!—to be Terran.”
Petrella had closed her eyes and allowed herself to slump back into her chair. Daav watched her closely, seeking a sign by which he might know if this sudden sagging were an artifact of her illness or a ploy to divert him.
Petrella opened her eyes. “Er Thom is bringing a Terran scholar to guest in this house,” she said, absolutely toneless.
“Correct,” replied Er Thom’s foster-brother and, when she still glared at him: “He being so scholarly himself, you see.”
She snorted. “A master trader may not be an idiot, I allow. However, I confess that this scholarly aspect of my son’s nature has heretofore escaped my notice.” She waved a hand, and Daav saw sincere weariness in the gesture. “But there—a cha’leket will know what none other may guess.”
“Exactly so,” Daav murmured and finished his wine. Setting the glass aside, he rose and made his bow—affection and honored esteem. “If there is any way in which I may be of service, aunt, do call. And if you would prefer not to meddle with the Ambassadorial Suite, the scholar may just as easily stay at Jelaza—”
“yos’Galan’s guest,” the old lady interrupted austerely, “stays in yos’Galan’s house.”
“Certainly,” her nephew said and crossed over to bend and kiss her ravaged cheek and lay a light hand on the sparse, scorched hair. “Don’t tire yourself. I am entirely able to assist you.”
She smiled her slight, mocking smile and reached up to touch his cheek. “You’re a good boy,” she said softly, then waved an irritable hand. “Go away. I’ve work to do.”
“Yes, aunt,” he said gently and crossed the room with his silent, quick steps, melting down the hallway as if he had no more substance than a shadow.
Petrella sighed and slumped deep in her chair, concentrating on the breath that rasped, painful and hot, through her ruined lungs.
After a time, when she was certain she would not shame herself, she rang the bell for the butler.
Chapter Twelve
The thing to recall about Dragons is that it takes a special person to deal with them at all. If you lie to them they will steal from you. If you attack them without cause they will dismember you. If you run from them they will laugh at you.
It is thus best to deal calmly, openly and fairly with Dragons: Give them all they buy and no more or less, and they will do the same by you. Stand at their back and they will stand at yours. Always remember that a Dragon is first a Dragon and only then a friend, a partner, a lover.
Never assume that you have discovered a Dragon’s weak point until it is dead and forgotten, for joy is fleeting and a Dragon’s revenge is forever.
—From The
Liaden Book of Dragons
ER THOM LET himself into his stuffy rented quarters, took off his jacket and flung it over the arm of the doubtful sofa. Spacer that he was, he barely noticed the lack of windows, though the rattle of the ventilator grated on senses tuned to catch the barest whisper of life system malfunction.
Surefooted in the dimness, he went across the common room to the pantry and poured a glass of wine from one of the bottles appropriated from Dragon’s Way.
Honest red wine and none of Daav’s precious misravot! he thought, smiling softly. Leaning against the too-high counter, he closed his eyes and sipped.
He had almost lost her.
The thought horrified—and horrified again, for it transpired that on days when Marilla watched Shan, she most usually brought him to Anne’s office in the evening, as Rilly went to teach a night class. Dependent upon the child’s mood, Anne did sometimes stay late, grading papers, meeting with students, doing “housecleaning.” If Er Thom had not had the tending of his son this day …
“An accident,” Jerzy Entaglia had said, sitting on Anne’s sofa and drinking a cup of real coffee. “Just one of those stupid damn things. That’s what Admin’s saying, anyway.” He sighed, looking abruptly exhausted.
“‘Course they haven’t sorted the rubble yet, or counted the bodies—or even called up the folks who have backwing offices, just to make sure they’re all tucked up, safe and warm.” He shook his head. “Likely they’ll find huge chunks of a fusion bomb in the wreckage, when they get around to cleaning it up.”
“Is there—forgive me,” Er Thom had murmured at that point, though it was hardly his place to do so. “Has there been thought of—of a balancing. . ?”
Jerzy blinked at him.
“An honor-feud, he means,” Anne told her friend and shook her head. “It’s not too likely, Er Thom. The whole wing went, remember? Not just one person’s office. And anyway, how could there be a feud against a language department? We’re just a bunch of fuzzy humanities-types. If it were a hard-science department, where they might possibly have gotten onto something someone didn’t want them to have—but Languages? You might as well blow up Theater Arts!”
“A notion overfull with glamour,” Jerzy announced, with the air of one quoting a passage of Code.
Anne laughed.
“Yah, well, I’m outta here,” Jerzy said, levering himself up. “‘Night, Anne—Mr. yos’Galan. Lucky thing you were here to take Scooter today.” He stuck his big hand out.
Er Thom rose and offered his own, patiently enduring the stranger’s touch and the up-and-down motion. Then he rescued his hand and bowed honor for his son’s foster-father. “Keep you well, Jerzy Entaglia.”
“Thanks,” the other man had said. “Same to you.”
He’d left then, and Er Thom soon after, to come back to these ragged apartments that were still slightly more spacious than Anne’s normal living quarters. He pictured her in Trealla Fantrol, where the guesting suites boasted wide windows and fragrant plants and well-made, graceful furniture.
He pictured her walking the lawns with him, visiting the maze, and Jelaza Kazone—thought of showing her the Tree …
She had said she did not wish to wed.
Er Thom opened his eyes, frowning at the clock hung lopsided on the wall opposite.
She had said she did not wish to marry him, but that was not true. She burned for him as he for her and dreaded the day when they would part. He knew it. In his bones he knew it, irrevocably, absolutely, beyond doubt or even question of how he knew it.
So, Anne had lied. He was a master trader, after all. He knew prevarication in all its postures, tones and faces. Never before had he had a lie from Anne.
Why now? he wondered, and then recalled that he had taught her to fear him. Very likely the lie was credited to his account—and accurate balance it was.
Still, if she wished to wed and denied him out of fear, the matter might yet be managed. All his skill was in showing folk who had never seen an item why they must yearn to possess it. How much easier a trade, when the one he traded with already desired that which he had to offer—
“Wait.”
He came sharply away from the counter and paced into the common room, reaching up to slap at the ill-placed light-switch.
He had offered contract-marriage, he thought agitatedly. It was everything that he could offer—though it was extremely irregular and would doubtless require him to fall on his f
ace before his thodelm and cry mercy. Yet, contract-marriage to Anne—especially with the child already fact!—lay within the realm of what was very possible.
Only—contract-marriages very soon expired and the spouses separated—and Anne dreading their eventual separation as much as he.
“How,” Er Thom asked the empty room, “if she wishes a lifemating?”
That became a matter for the delm. Giddy as the prospect of spending all his days with Anne Davis might render Er Thom yos’Galan, yet the delm was the keeper of the clan’s genes, guardian of the lines’ purity, arbiter of alliances. Korval was not as populous as once it had been and the delm might very well have use for Er Thom’s genes elsewhere. A lifemating would put him beyond the possibility of future contract-marriages, which left the burden of such alliances to Kareen, which was laughable—and to Daav.
Korval might very well—and with all good cause—deny its son Er Thom the solace of a lifemating.
Or he might be allowed the lifemating—later. After he had done his full duty for the clan—however many years it might take.
“And I hardly able to keep myself from her for one night!” He finished his wine, ruefully. Still, it was out of his hands and firmly in the keeping of the delm, who would decide for the good of the clan and could do nothing at all until Er Thom laid the entire matter before him.
Thinking thus, though in no way comforted, and, indeed, with an unaccustomed dismay for the ways and necessities of the clan, he went back to the pantry for another glass of wine, which he carried with him to the wall desk.
“I shall put the thing before Daav,” he said to himself. “He may best advise me of the clan’s requirements, and what the delm might decide.” And Daav at least, Scout as he had been, would not turn his face in horror from one who professed abiding love for a Terran …
Seated on the too-wide chair, booted feet just short of the floor, Er Thom opened the remote unit he had brought with him from the ship and touched the ‘on’ key.
The message-waiting light blinked in the top right corner, blue and insistent.
