by Susan Grant
He was one of them, was he not? One of the eight, the once-scion to the B’kahs. No matter how thoroughly his past deeds had sullied his family name, that simple fact remained—blood was blood.
Hand over hand, he propelled himself back to the cockpit and consulted his star map. His mind buzzed with possibilities, while hope thrummed in his veins. Mistraal…yes. The ancestral planet of the family Dar was but a day’s journey at maximum speed. It was also his brother-in-law’s home, a man he had once considered his close friend.
A man he hadn’t spoken to in twenty years.
Not that Rom’s life spent on the fringes of civilized space had facilitated familial contact, if Joren had cared to try…
He rotated in the chair to face the bunk. Aside from surrendering what little personal pride he had left, showing up on a Vash Nadah homeworld looking for help was in flagrant violation of the mandate that had transformed him from heir to the throne, to outcast. Not to mention that it would amount to outright groveling. But resolve fortified him at the sight of Jas’s pain-etched face. The planet Mistraal was his best chance, perhaps his only chance, at finding a surgeon with the skills to save her. If Joren Dar’s starfighters don’t blast me to cosmic dust first.
Willing that dismal prospect from his mind, Rom reached for the navigation console and entered the coordinates for the desolate, windswept planet Mistraal.
Pushed to maximum speed, the starspeeder shook. Stars stretched to impossible lengths across the forward viewscreen, while Mistraal, a tiny pinprick of light, crept across the navigation display. Rom had kept up the grueling pace all day, while Jas grew slowly colder, weaker.
By now she would have been under a doctor’s care on Gorgenon. Instead she was dying on a thin-sheeted space pilot’s bunk. As in poker, the game her people so loved, he had to bet everything on what he could not see. All he could do now was pray that when fate’s hand was revealed, the cards were in his favor.
“Unidentified starspeeder, this is Mistraal Control!”
Rom jolted instantly alert.
“You are entering protected space,” the controller barked. “State identification.”
“Starspeeder, all-purpose class-type M, registration number 18693, M-2A.”
“State intentions.”
Rom spoke slowly, evenly. “Request permission to land. Medical emergency. I repeat, medical emergency.”
“Pilot identification,” the controller demanded.
“Romlijhian B’kah.”
“Er…say again?”
“Romlijhian B’kah.” A telling silence followed, and he pictured the conversation that must surely be taking place in the control pod.
Another controller took over, a bit more experienced, as evidenced by her sterner, confident voice. “State pilot identification.”
Rom spread his hands on the console and replied. He must have come within interrogation range, for a string of lights then danced across his forward computer panel as Mistraal extracted the information they needed to authenticate his claim.
The sparkles winked out. Minutes of silence dragged into almost half an hour. Then icy shards of dread began to chip away at his confidence. He floated out of the chair and stretched his cramped muscles. He looked back toward Jas. “Patience, angel. Simply a minor bureaucratic snarl. Nothing’s changed in the years I’ve been gone.”
The lightness of his tone did not transfer to his heart. He’d gambled that his sister’s husband wouldn’t turn him away. But what if the years had eradicated what loyalty might linger from friendship and family ties? Joren Dar could refuse him entry.
Easily. Or what if Joren was dead?
Then what?
Perspiration needled his forehead. The other Vash Nadah worlds were too distant to be of any use. If Joren turned him away—and he’d be well within his rights—Rom would be forced to take his chances on some forsaken planet. And Jas would die; he knew it as surely as he breathed.
“Attention 18693, M-2A—this is Mistraal—do you read?”
He shoved himself into the chair. “Go.”
“You have permission to land. Proceed to checkpoint alpha.”
“Copy,” Rom said on a sharp exhalation. “Checkpoint alpha.” Grabbing the thrust lever, he eased the craft into the landing protocol.
Fatigued to his very bones, Rom cradled Jas in his arms and strode through the hatch of the starspeeder into a vast anteroom. Remember that you are a B’kah. The blood of Romjha runs in your veins. He squared his shoulders and lifted his chin. As his boots echoed off the floor of flawless white crystal, he instinctively searched the group assembling in the chamber for a familiar face, but found none.
“Summon your surgeon,” he told the openly curious palace dwellers, using the most authoritative voice he could muster in his depleted state.
Two men nodded and ran from the room. Irritated, Rom watched them go. Hadn’t he transmitted on arrival that he needed a doctor to meet him? Why wasn’t one here waiting?
“Rom—it is you!”
The familiar, breathy voice cut through the crowd. He steeled himself as the gathering parted for his sister. Melon-hued silk breezed behind her as she hurried toward him. Her hair was piled ornately on the top of her head and partially hidden beneath a filmy veil. Swept back from her face, the style revealed the elegant features of a woman—not the girl he once knew.
He felt a rush of homecoming, a sense of years wasted. Somehow he kept control of his emotions, a far more difficult task now that he’d grown accustomed to revealing them to Jas. “Di—” he said lamely, using her childhood nickname as if days instead of years had passed since they’d last seen each other.
Tears welled in her eyes. “They told me it was you. I was afraid to believe—but by the heavens, you are actually here.” She slid one warm, smooth hand over his cheek and traced the contours of his face.
He caught her hand. “Never have you been far from my thoughts.”
“Nor you from mine,” she whispered.
Her expression of unqualified joy told him what he’d dared not hope. The love between them had survived their years apart.
Swallowing hard, he forced himself to focus on the reason he was here. “Is your surgeon on the way?”
Her gaze veered to Jas, whose hair tumbled nearly to the floor. “Yes.” Clearly taken with Jas’s startlingly exotic appearance, she asked, “Who is she?”
“My a’nah.” The words slipped out without forethought.
His sister peered at Jas with heightened interest. Unconsciously Rom hugged Jas more tightly to his chest. Though not formal, the title “wife-without-spoken-vows” would give Jas much-needed status in a society that revolved around rank and family.
He would simply explain everything when she awoke.
“You summoned my surgeon,” Joren called out as he caught up to his wife. His ceremonial robes swirled around his tall, muscular frame as he halted beside her. “The woman is ill?”
“Yes,” Rom replied uneasily, unable to tell from Joren’s guarded expression what the man thought of his arrival here. “Parasites. The most incredibly voracious species I’ve seen. My antiparasitic had little to no effect.” Desperation slipped into his voice. “I fear that if she is not treated immediately she will die.”
Joren flicked his hand and more men ran off, presumably to speed the surgeon’s appearance. “I was not informed of the seriousness of her condition. Bello!” he shouted. “Bring the senior controller to me immediately. With the feeble excuse on the tip of his tongue as to why I was given incomplete information.” When the man fled the chamber, Joren muttered, “Unlike my space controllers, my surgeon and his staff are the best the galaxy has to offer. We will make the woman well.”
“His a’nah,” Di supplied pointedly.
The couple exchanged glances. “Your a’nah, then. She is welcome here.” He sought and held Rom’s gaze. Two decades of misgiving shone in his eyes, along with unequivocal regard and love. “As are you, my brother,” he whi
spered.
Rom’s throat closed painfully. He extended his right hand, despite his hold on Jas, and Joren grasped his forearm in the traditional familial greeting.
There was a commotion. The crowd of palace onlookers separated to allow a green-robed surgeon and his entourage past. A knot of capable assistants eased Jas onto a gurney. Rom and Joren accompanied them out of the vast antechamber and into a maze of well-traveled corridors. Everyone he passed stared, openmouthed. “The B’kah,” some whispered.
Under his breath, Rom said, “You’ve taken a great personal risk by allowing me to stay. There’ll be consequences when the others find out.”
“I don’t care a scarran’s seed about—”
“Just save her, Joren,” Rom interjected, his voice pleading and low. “That’s all I ask. Save her and I’ll trouble you no more.”
A chime woke Jas, but the healing fragrance of Siennan incense was what finally coaxed her to open her eyes. It took a while to absorb where she was. The enormous bedroom was suffused with the soft glow of laser-candles. Three walls were carved from an opaque, almost luminescent material resembling white crystal, while the fourth was entirely open to the outside, a terrace overlooking a vista of desolate steppes awash in muted hues of ocher, pumpkin, and beige. Lush cushions and wall hangings kept the spacious chamber from feeling cold.
Floating on a sense of well-being—of having healed—she decided that Rom must have found a doctor, and a fine one, too, judging by the quality of her surroundings.
Another crisp ting of metal hitting a bell interrupted the silence. She rolled to her side. Her insides felt battered and tight, as though she’d done too many sit-ups—a thousand too many.
Across the shadowed room, a broad-shouldered form knelt before an altar. His powerful body was bowed humbly as he tapped his prayer wand against an ancientlooking engraved bell.
Sending his prayers to heaven.
Her throat squeezed tight. “Rom,” she called huskily, lifting one hand. He whipped around and met her gaze. His expression revealed his stark relief and the intensity of his emotions. If there was any doubt that he loved her the way she loved him, it evaporated in that moment.
He strode across the room and eased himself next to her in bed, carefully and tenderly, as though she’d break if he moved too fast. He slipped his arms around her and murmured against her hair, “So how do you feel, angel?”
“One hundred percent better.” Contentedly she tucked one hand inside his loose silken shirt to savor the heat of his skin. “How long have we been here?” she said softly. “And what did they do to me?”
“Three days. During which you underwent abdominal surgery and tissue regeneration.”
“And I feel this good?” She hesitantly felt for scars and stitches. Her stomach was tender and a bit puffy, but as smooth as before. “Amazing.”
He brushed his lips across her forehead. “The surgeon is a master. Among the best in the galaxy.”
“Like this hospital, no doubt.” The bedroom resembled her suite at the Romjha Hotel, only it was three times as big and decorated on a more opulent scale. Wealth and good taste infused every fixture in the room, many of them works of art in their own right. “Where are we—Gorgenon Prime?”
She felt the muscles in his back tighten. “No. Mistraal.”
She peered down at him. “We’re on Mistraal? A ruling Vash homeworld?”
“Yes. The Dar Palace.”
She searched his shadowed face for confirmation that he was joking.
“Gorgenon Prime did not maintain the facilities necessary to save you. Here, they did.” He reached up and cupped her face with one warm, dry hand. “Joren Dar is my brother-in-law.”
Words eluded her. The enormity of what Rom had done for her hit her hard. He hadn’t wanted to go home, to involve himself in Vash affairs, even with Sharron’s threat weighing on his conscience. Now here they were. “Did you tell them about Sharron?”
“Only Joren. We spoke yesterday.”
She leaned toward him. “And?”
“He was shocked to hear Sharron survived. But even more so when I told him illegal weaponry is involved. I told him this is bigger than we thought, that all we value as a society is at stake. Now Joren is meeting with his advisers and intelligence officers to see if more can be learned.”
Thoughtfully, she said, “So Vash intelligence didn’t know about the Family of the New Day after all.”
“They do now. At first light we’ll leave. The starspeeder is packed with supplies and ready to go.”
She pushed herself up. Her robe fell open and she clutched it closed, pressing the sumptuous, satiny blue cloth to her breasts. “I thought this was your sister’s home.”
“It is, but—”
“Did you tell her your plans?”
“No, but—”
“Good,” she said with a sigh. “It’d be beyond me how a woman who hadn’t seen her only brother in years could let him walk away after a three-day visit.”
“Jasmine, we will leave at sunrise. I’ve already told them what I know. I have no place here.”
“Phooey,” she snapped. “This is family.”
“My presence here places my brother-in-law in an awkward position, should the ruling council find out.”
“That’s politics. There’s a difference.”
He heaved a weary sigh. The entry door banged open and the melodic sound of children’s laughter spilled into the room. “Tajhar Rom, Tajhar Rom!” Half a dozen bronzed, golden-eyed cherubs scampered to the bed, belting out shrieks of joy as they tugged on Rom’s shirt.
“Who invited you into my bedchamber?” he demanded playfully as he bounded out of bed. “You will pay for this act of impudence.” He grabbed the two littlest ones, a boy and a girl, and tossed them onto the floor cushions, tickling them into fits of squealing giggles, while the older four danced around him, vying for attention.
“Parjhonian, Entok, Jon…Theea et Preejha.” A tall, graceful woman clothed from head to toe in white silk burst through the open doors.
Jas’s heart leaped. She was a female version of Rom. She had the same gorgeous sculpted features, dark-lashed pale eyes, and nutmeg-hued hair, which she wore braided and coiled on the top of her head.
The woman shooed the children away, her braceletadorned arms gesturing wildly as she scolded them in a lyrical and expressive tongue that had to be Siennan. After herding them outside, she shoved the double doors closed and slumped against them. Her golden eyes brimmed with wit and intelligence—and a good deal of curiosity as she gave Jas a thorough once-over. Switching to accented Basic, she said, “My heart sings to see you up and well,” before launching into a rather flustered apology for the children’s intrusion.
Jas protested. “Six children, and there can’t be more than a year separating them. Frankly I don’t know how you do it. I had my hands full with two.”
“Ah, but my three are much older. Those ruffians are my nieces and nephews.” She regarded Jas, then Rom, her gaze brimming with affection.
Rom introduced the women with a gracious sweep of his hand. “My sister, Dilemma Dar. Di, we call her.”
Jas choked back a small sound of amused surprise. Dilemma—how apropos. Extending her hand, she said, “I’m so glad to meet you.” With a challenging glance in Rom’s direction, she added, “I do look forward to getting to know you better.”
Predictably, his expression darkened. Oblivious, Di told him cheerily, “Everyone’s gathering in the dining hall. You’d best help your wife prepare for the evening meal.”
Jas gaped at him. “Your wife?”
Rom groaned.
“You’re…married?” she asked incredulously.
“There isn’t a wife,” he assured her.
Dismayed, Di cried out, “But you said—”
“I meant that Jas is my wife.”
Jas’s mind spun. “Would someone please tell me what is going on?”
Appearing sheepish, Rom crouched at h
er side. Taking her hand in his, he gave her a lengthy and convoluted explanation of the term a’nah, and why he’d thought it would benefit her. The emotional benefits were less clear. He hadn’t mentioned a desire to make the arrangement legal.
And why would he? she thought, gazing around the spacious room, the silk carpets and gold-inlaid mosaics, walls that reflected light like an iced-over pond. The place was a castle. In Vash circles marriages were alliances between mighty families, not love matches with divorced housewives from backwater planets like Earth.
She gave a small, disappointed sigh.
Di’s eyes sparked with mischief. “Dear brother, I rejoice. With your infinite charm, you have convinced this lovely woman to be your a’nah.” She melted his narrow-eyed, big-brother frown with a sweet smile. “Do escort her to dinner—if she feels up to it.” Nodding at Jas, she left the room in an elegant sashay.
When the door closed, Jas folded her arms over her chest.
Rom spread his hands. “What?”
“She loves you. And you love her.”
He sighed.
“Still, we’re leaving.”
He walked away from her, twisting the signet ring on his finger. “If I stay, I fear I’ll be forced to choose between you and my involvement here.”
“You won’t. Not if you convince the Vash Nadah to take over the fight.” She gathered her robe around her and climbed out of bed, wincing as she did so. “Listen to me. Even if you don’t want to get involved with what’s going on with Sharron…life’s too short—if we get a day of happiness, or a week or month or year, we need to grab hold of it, because tomorrow’s not promised to anyone. Stay a little longer, Rom. Please.” She grasped his upper arms. “Just to recapture some of what you and your sister lost.”
Rom closed his eyes to steady himself. In the sudden silence, a bowl of incense popped and hissed, and hushed voices emanated from outside the room. The heat of her skin brought to him her sweet fragrance, the scent of freshly laundered bed linens, and the faint tang of medicinals.
