by Sharon
Her eyes were desolate—determined. He saw the lie form in their depths, felt the price she paid for speaking it as if it were wrung from his own soul.
“There is nothing wrong,” she said, and took a breath. “Shouldn’t you be attending to that pretty child?”
“That pretty child,” he said, hearing the edge on his voice, “is terrified of me. The best I might do for her is to arrange matters so we need never meet again.”
Anne glanced around in time to see Luken bel’Tarda approach Syntebra and Daav.
“Then you won’t mind if you lose her to Luken,” she said, raising her glass to sip.
“If Luken can abide her, he’s welcome.” He turned away and poured himself a glass of the red.
“At least tell me,” he said, looking back to her, “if you yet intend to allow me the honor of becoming your lifemate.”
Agony. Boiling lye poured across the open wound of his heart. He gasped, clutching his glass as the room spun dizzily out of control—and steadied. Before him, Anne’s face was stark, desolate eyes sparkling tears.
She will lie, he thought around the singing in his ears. Gods, I cannot bear it, if she lies to me again.
Anne turned her head sharply, breaking his gaze.
“I must ask Daav to make me known to his sister,” she said abruptly, and with no more ceremony than that she left him, walking so smoothly the gown barely rustled.
Er Thom took a sip to calm himself—and another—and moved out into the room, meticulously taking up his duties as host.
Chapter Thirty-Four
The Lower Docks of Solcintra Port are the sphere of thieves, murderers, rogues and criminals of every description. Clanless and desperate, they have nothing to lose, and are completely willing to relieve the unwary of their purses and, often enough, their lives.
—From “A Terran’s Guide to Liad”
THE FINAL GUEST AT long last bowed out, Er Thom leaned dizzily against the wall and raked his hands through his hair.
He’d lost track of Daav during in the evening; he supposed his cha’leket to have simply slipped away when the crush became too wearisome. He remembered that Anne had retired about mid-way through the dancing. Daav, her self-appointed cavalier, would have likely made his escape soon after.
The two dearest to him in someway accounted for, Er Thom closed his eyes, trying to ignore the roaring in his ears and consided what he could recall of the evening.
He had a vague notion that he had performed his hostly duties with competence, if not flair. Daav had attached himself to Anne, for which kindness his brother loved him all the more.
Luken had taken young Syntebra in to dinner, and danced with her several times. Duty had compelled Er Thom to claim the lady’s hand for at least one dance, which he had done, and come away wondering how Luken could bear the chit hanging on his sleeve all evening.
But there, he thought, leaning his head back against the wall, Luken was a patient, good-hearted fellow. The child’s apparent distress would be sufficient to assure her of his good offices.
Of the rest of the evening, he could recall nothing, save a feeling of bone-deep coldness, nausea, and the desire to break into tears at the most inopportune moments.
Ill, he thought, clawing his hair back from his face. I must be ill.
He’d been ill, once or twice, so long ago he could scarcely remember the occasions, much less the symptoms. He tried to recall when he had first felt poorly this evening—and gasped, coming up straight in the hallway.
Anne.
He’d been speaking with Anne. Anne who had not been her accustomed self for several days. Anne who had lied to him and who, reasonless, declined to wear his ring. Anne—
Gods, if Anne is ill—
He was on his way down the hall, half-running, shivering now with fear, lest she be lying in need and he unaware—
The door to the Smaller Salon opened. His mother came one step into the hallway and held up her hand.
“A word with you, sirrah. Now.”
“Your pardon,” he stammered, barely knowing what he said. “I must go to Anne immediately.”
His mother’s hand moved, flashing out with all her old speed, fingers locking around his wrist, crushing his lace, biting into his flesh.
“I think not,” she said ominously.
For all her sudden strength, he could have easily broken the hold. But she was kin; she had borne him and given him aside, that he might be raised with Daav yos’Phelium, his beloved other self—and for that she was owed.
“Mother,” he said gently, standing where she held him. “I have reason to believe the guest is ill.”
“I see,” she said, remotely polite. “A very grave affair, I agree. Mr. pak’Ora shall be dispatched to inquire into the guest’s health. You will come with me.”
For a heartbeat he thought he would not; thought he would break with clan entirely, rip away his arm and run abovestairs to his heart’s own love.
But he felt the deep tremors in the hand that held him, saw the exhaustion in her face and the half-mad glitter in her eyes that said she kept her feet by will alone.
“Certainly,” he murmured and they went together into the Smaller Salon, she leaning heavily on the arm of her supposed captive.
Er Thom seated her in a chair by the busy fire, then stood back, solemnly studying the table at her side.
Petrella’s glittering eyes raked his face.
“Think I’m beyond keeping my word, do you?” she snapped and pulled the intercom to her.
The order to inquire into the state of the guest’s health was given, brusquely, and the intercom shoved aside.
“Satisfied, A’thodelm?”
Er Thom bowed. “My thanks, mother.”
She made no answer to this, but simply sat for a time, staring into his face, fingers gripping the arms of the chair.
“The Terran scholar looked uncommonly fine this evening,” she said at last, and in milder tone than he had anticipated. “Eyla dea’Lorn’s work, I think?”
Er Thom said nothing. In spite of the fire he was cold—cold. He felt certain his mother could see him shiver.
“And the jewels,” she pursued, after a moment. “Who but Moonel would think a yellow diamond rope? Allow me to offer my compliments, A’thodelm: You do handsomely by your light-loves.” She paused, eyes burning into his.
“You will now have the goodness to name the day in this relumma on which you shall wed Syntebra el’Kemin.”
Er Thom inclined his head. “I shall not marry Syntebra el’Kemin,” he said steadily. “Not in this relumma or in any other.”
“Ah, so?” His mother lifted her eyebrows in polite interest, her voice dangerously mild. “Pray, why not?”
“For the first part, because the child is frightened of me.”
“A condition,” Petrella pointed out, still in that tone of menacing mildness, “you did very little to alleviate this evening. But I interrupt! If there is a first part, then a second must be at hand! Enlighten me, I beg.”
His hands were ice; he felt sweat gathering along his hairline; his stomach was cramped and there was a roaring in his ears that overrode the crackling of the fire. Er Thom grit his teeth and bowed.
“Scholar Davis and I are agreed to become lifemates,” he said, around a strangling tightness in his throat. “We go to seek the delm tomorrow.”
Silence. Petrella was seen to close her eyes—and open them.
“I forbid it.”
“You cannot,” he answered.
“Ah, can I not?” She leaned forward, fingers clawed into the carven arms of the chair. “I remind you that I am Thodelm yos’Galan. It is I who decides issues of Line and I have decided that it is not necessary to take a Terran into yos’Galan. Why should we do so? We are Liaden!”
“We are Korval!” Er Thom’s shout startled him as much as his mother. “There is strength in diversity, weakness in samehood! You have read Cantra’s logs—” He flung his hands out, showi
ng her his empty palms.
“Mother, you have not even seen the child we made,” he said, voice somewhat calmer. “Bright, bold-hearted and quick—as quick as any in the clan at his age—quicker than many! How is this ill-done? Why, the clan can use a dozen such!”
“And may have them yet, should I decide to breed you thus often!” Petrella pushed to her feet, face nearly white in the fire glow.
“Mother—”
“Silence!” The Command Mode: Thodelm to Line Member. She pinned him with glare.
“You are forbidden,” she stated, all in High Command. “You are forbidden from this moment forward to see, touch, speak to or think upon Anne Davis. She is not for you. You are commanded to name a day when you shall wed Syntebra el’Kemin. Now.”
“Never!” he cried. “As for denying Anne, I shall not! We are lifemates, in all but word! Tomorrow morning, we shall be lifemates entirely! You cannot stop us from seeking the delm, you cannot—”
“I forbid this lifemating!” Petrella snarled. “Pursue it at your peril, A’thodelm, unless you wish make a way for yourself and your lifemate on the Lower Docks!”
Er Thom froze, jaw tight. He met his mother’s eyes straightly.
“There is no need for a master trader to seek the Low Port,” he said, and the inflection of his voice was nearer Terran than any proper mode. “And if you will have my license called in question, then I remind you there is yet no reason for a master pilot to go further than the Guild House in the Upper Port.” He bowed.
“If you will have it so, ma’am, then you will. I wish—with all my heart—that it were otherwise. As it is not, I shall take myself and mine—”
“Enough!” The Command Mode: Delm to Clanmember. Er Thom bit off his sentence as Daav came, quick and silent, across the room.
“You!” He flung a hand out to Petrella, black eyes bright in a face that might have been carved of gold. “We bar none from the clan tonight! You!” The hand flashed to Er Thom, Korval’s Ring snagging the firelight. “We drag none unwilling into the clan. Ever!”
Er Thom started, was stilled by a flare of black eyes. “The lady has told me—tonight!—that she would have none of you. She swore it, and I believe her. The game is done.”
“No!” Er Thom shook off his delm’s gaze. “I will see her, speak with her! There is something gone ill and she—”
“Silence!” Korval commanded and Er Thom gasped, staring into black, black eyes. In the fireplace, a stick broke noisily, releasing a rain of sparkles.
“You will go to your rooms,” Korval commanded then, “and await the Healer. Anne Davis is none of yours. I trust you will not trouble her further.”
She had denied him. His mind logged the thought into a loop, that began at once to repeat, over and over: Anne had denied him. Anne had denied him. Anne … Anne
His body moved, graceless and wooden—a bow to the delm’s honor, followed by another, to the thodelm. His—legs—moved, carrying him past delm and thodelm, out of the room, into the hall, down corridors pitch black and bitter cold, until at last he came to an end of walking.
He stared around the place where he found himself: Stared at the laden worktable, the mantelpiece cluttered with bric-a-brac from an hundred worlds, the pleasant grouping of chair and doublechair before the laid and unlit hearth.
He walked toward the hearth, eyes caught by a flutter of red and gold among the mantel’s clutter. Reaching, he had it down, and stood gazing at the thing.
A scrap of red silk no longer than his hand, that was all. That, and a length of tarnished, gold-colored ribbon, elaborately knotted into a fraying flower, through which the red silk had been lovingly threaded.
“Anne!” Her name was a keen, jagged with agony. He crashed to his knees, clutching the bit of silk as if it were a lifeline, bent his head and wept.
“WELL.” PETRELLA SANK into her chair, quivering in every muscle. She looked up into her nephew’s set face. “Better late than never arrive, I suppose. It comforts me that at last you perceive the good of the clan.”
“The good of the clan,” Daav repeated tonelessly. He stared down at her, eyes black and remote. “Is Korval so wealthy, aunt, that we might cast aside a master pilot, and shrug away the cost? Or has your intention always been to end yos’Galan with yourself? Speak plainly, I beg you.”
“End yos’Galan—Ah.” Petrella closed her eyes and let her head fall against the chair’s padding. “You heard me threaten him with the Lower Docks, did you? Then you also heard that he was raving. I spoke to frighten, and to shock him into sanity.”
“And failed in both intents,” Daav snapped. “He was on the edge of accepting your terms, ma’am, when the delm ordered him to cease!”
There was a small silence. Petrella opened her eyes.
“I believe you had mistaken the matter, nephew.”
“Oh, had I?” Daav returned bitterly. “‘I shall take myself and mine—’ was what he said! Am I the only one of us who can clearly hear the end of that sentence?” He bowed, deeply and with irony. “My compliments, aunt—In one throw you make your son clanless and a thief.”
In the depths of her chair, Petrella shivered, assailed by a pain far different than that which wracked her body.
“He—is ill,” she achieved after a moment. “To turn his face from the clan and follow a Terran? It is—”
“Master Healer Kestra will be with him tomorrow. Would that she had been able to come tonight.” Daav turned away to stare into the fire. Suddenly, he whirled.
“Damn you for a meddlesome old woman!” he cried. “Why could you not have let it be? The lady had said she would not have him! She loved him too well, for your interest, aunt—too well to allow him the sacrifice of aligning himself with a Terran. If only his mother loved him half so well! But you—you must needs demand and shame and assert your dominion, sowing pain with every throw!” He came forward, one step, and stopped himself, staring down at her as if she were prey.
“The lady would have gone!” he shouted. “Of her own will, she would have left us and sought what healing she might. My brother would have likewise sought the Healers, to ease the grief of her going. There would have been honor for both in this, and a minimum of pain.” He paused and Petrella found she could breathe again, though she dared not take her eyes from his.
“All thanks to your wisdom,” he finished with brutal calm, “we have now two bleeding from wounds which may never heal clean, and a child abovestairs, crying aloud for both.”
He swept a low, mocking bow, his lace rustling in the utter silence of the room.
“Sleep well, Aunt Petrella. I shall return tomorrow.”
She made him no answer; barely knew that he was gone. She watched the fire—and, later, the embers—letting her mind ride the waves of pain, until she was back in a time when her twin was alive and all of life stretched before them.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Er Thom fell from the Tree this morning.
I hasten to add that all is well, though of course he took damage. A matter of broken ribs and dislocated shoulder—that’s the worst of it. Nothing beyond the autodoc’s capabilities.
I cannot for certain say how far he fell, for all Daav can tell me is that the pair of them had “never been so high.” Er Thom was craning for a better sight of the Port when an end-branch broke under his weight.
He was caught, twig-lashed and unconscious, by the big by-branch about seven meters up—you know the one, sister. The luck is in the business twice: The child doesn’t remember falling.
Daav saw the whole, and kept a cool head—far cooler than I should have kept at eight Standards, and so I swear! ‘Twas he climbed down, fetched me out of a meeting with dea’Gauss, and showed me where Er Thom lay.
Nor would he be parted from his cha’leket, but kept vigil at ‘doc-side and bed. I at last persuaded him to lie down whilst I kept watch, and he fell instantly asleep—to wake a quarter-hour later shrieking for Er Thom to come back, “Come back! The br
anch is breaking!”
I await the Healer as I write this …
—Excerpted from
A private letter to Petrella yos’Galan
From Chi yos’Phelium
SHAN TOOK HER HAND listlessly and went without any of his usual chatter down the long hallway toward Doctor yo’Kera’s office, Mouse clutched tight against his chest.
Anne eyed him worriedly. According to Mrs. Intassi, he had passed a restless night, his sleep broken by bad dreams and bouts of crying. It sounded remarkably like Anne’s own night and she wondered, half-dazedly, if she had caused her son’s unrest or he had caused hers.
She shook her head. Sure and there’s plenty of pain for everyone to have their own share. Er Thom’s night would have surely been no better; she recalled the look in his eyes, as he begged her to tell him what was wrong.
Annie Davis, I hope you know what you’re doing.
But after all, she told herself, working the lock on Doctor yo’Kera’s door, there was nothing else to do. By now, Daav would have told Er Thom that Anne had lied when she had agreed to be his lifemate. Er Thom could not possibly forgive such a lie, such a strike at his melant’i. Of course, he would come after her—but he would do so in any case, once he found Shan was gone. It was her intention to be firmly within Terran jurisdiction by the time Er Thom finally caught up with her.
“Ma?” Shan looked up at her from heavy-lidded silver eyes. “Where’s Mirada?”
Oh, gods. She dropped her bulging briefcase and went to her knees, gathering her son’s small body close.
“Mirada can’t come, Shannie,” she whispered, cheek tight against his hair. “His clan needs him.”
He slipped his arms around her neck, she felt him sigh, then: “We stay here? With Mirada?”
“No, baby,” she whispered and closed her eyes to hold back the tears. “We’re going home—to visit Uncle Dickie. A nice, long visit.”
She thought briefly of her post on University: Good-bye tenure track. Well, she could get a job on New Dublin, surely. She could be a translator at the Port, or a teacher of Standard Terran in the private school.
