“Do you wish to leave?”
She shook her head. “Not yet.”
“Then you need not go. You may stay as long as you like.”
“Do I really have that choice?”
“Of course. You are under my protection.”
Marianne chewed on her lower lip for a moment. “Why do you put such strict limits on the human technology you allow on Tolar?”
“It interferes with our own technology.”
Marianne’s eyebrows flew up.
“Perhaps the best descriptive phrase for human technology is, ‘it leaks,’” the Sural added. “Phase platforms more so than most of your devices.”
Marianne laughed. The Sural gave a one-shouldered Tolari shrug and smiled. “Have you more questions?”
“Why aren’t you out there,” she pointed upward, “in the stars?”
He rose from his chair and paced, hands clasped behind his back. “When our civilization was young, we went to the stars,” he began. “Thousands of years ago.”
“Thousands?” she gasped. “In Tolari years?”
“Your people still killed each other with weapons made of bronze,” the Sural continued. “Perhaps fifty-five hundreds of standard years. We found this arm of the galaxy then much as you see it now: an assorted collection of dissimilar races, all vying for what they saw as a limited quantity of resources, all protective of their space. We thought to trade, to exchange knowledge and culture, to learn about other races and civilizations. The peoples out there,” he waved at the ceiling, “had more interest in gaining an advantage from us or over us. We threaded our way through the petty rivalries for a hundred years or so, then wearied of it and returned to our own world.
“On occasion, a leader of the ruling caste will conceive the idea of sending out ships to renew old alliances in the sector, but it has been many hundreds of our years since that last occurred, and now the possibility no longer exists. None of the space-faring races of your Trade Alliance have known us to leave our planet. The races we once knew have all moved on, or died out, or annihilated themselves, or gone back to their homeworlds and turned inward, as we have. We are content here, on our own world, developing our art, our science, our culture.”
“Then why let humanity make contact?” Marianne asked. “Why am I here?”
“Because I can end such contact any time I decide. Allowing a relationship with Earth was not an irreversible decision. And it was good to see how our human cousins fared, that they had risen above their barbaric nature and become an interstellar civilization.”
Marianne blinked. “Cousins? What do you mean, cousins?”
“We are related, you and I. Is it not obvious?”
“Well—no, not entirely. There’s the little matter of your ability to disappear into thin air.”
He smiled. “I cannot share anything regarding that with you. I can only say we are related. Your government has not yet obtained a tissue sample from one of us—but when they do, they will discover this for themselves. A Tolari and a human could produce fertile offspring, so long as the mother was Tolari.”
“Why must the mother be Tolari?” she asked, frowning.
“Otherwise, the child would die long before birth.”
“But—”
He shrugged a shoulder. “If you like, I will allow you to ‘obtain’ a Tolari tissue sample to phase up to your ship. That would create quite a distraction, I should think.” He flashed a crooked smile. “It will give you time to consider.”
“I bet they’d be excited enough not to ask me too many questions,” she said.
The Sural nodded, a thoughtful expression on his face. “Proctor,” he added, “you will find the guards in your quarters have learned English. Consider choosing another language to speak when you wish the Admiral to believe you conceal something from me.”
She blanched a little, thinking about some of the things Adeline said. “You’ve been spying on me!” she exclaimed.
“You have been spying on me.” His voice was mild. “How do your people put it? That makes us even.” The saying seemed to amuse him. “All the same, it is not espionage to observe what happens in my own stronghold—or, as Tolar’s ruler, what comes into Tolari space.”
“How much of what I say on the comms gets to you?” she asked, biting her lip and holding her breath.
“Everything you say is reported to me, and I receive a copy of every report you send to your Admiral.”
She buried her face in both hands and groaned, too embarrassed even to be angry. He chuckled. “You must think I’m a fool,” she said into her palms. “I feel like seven different kinds of an idiot.”
The Sural stopped pacing and half-sat on the table next to her. “Do you feel I have betrayed you?”
“I should,” she said, peering at him through her fingers. Anger eluded her, but she should be furious.
“No, you should not. I pledged my life to protect you. To that end, I must know as much as possible. Your people have not left behind all their more treacherous habits, and as for mine—there are those among the provincial rulers with more ambition than is good for them. They forget they cannot harm me.”
“Old age and treachery defeat youth and beauty,” she quoted in English.
He laughed, nodding, eyes glinting.
“You adhere to your guarantee of my safety more than my own government does.”
The Sural smiled. On a whim, he let the warmth he felt show.
“Wait a minute,” she said. “Why are you protecting me? I’m an enemy spy.”
“You are hardly my enemy, proctor, and you are not an intelligence operative. You are my daughter’s tutor, who is being shamefully used by her own people.”
She eyed him. “You’re an empath. Truly an empath.”
“Yes,” he answered, sensing a fearful suspicion growing in her. “What troubles you?”
“How much of what I feel can you—sense, or read, or whatever?”
He fell silent, thinking about it for a time, staring at her. She valued her privacy—a privacy she could not know was impossible to maintain on his planet. He spread his hands. “Physical contact is required to fully read another. I gave explicit orders when you arrived that no one was to touch you.”
“Oh,” she said, relief radiating from her. Then she blinked, and the relief turned back to suspicion. “Wait a minute. Storaas has, at least twice. The last time was just a few days ago. He took my hand under his arm as we walked in the garden.” Her eyes went wide. “Was he reading me?”
The Sural raised an eyebrow. “Very likely,” he answered, watching her. She flared, indignant, struggling to repress it. Magnificent.
“That’s—that’s—” she sputtered.
“Not against my orders,” he finished.
“What?” Shock slackened her jaw.
He laced his fingers together over one thigh. “I told him to find a suitable opportunity to read you.”
She opened her mouth and closed it again, the shock giving way to an anger she fought to control. The guards flickered into sight, watching her, alerted by the strength of her ire.
“Have a care, proctor,” he said, gesturing the guards to stand down. They disappeared again.
She heaved a heavy sigh, deflating. He could sense her getting a grip on runaway emotions.
“I—” She sighed again and withdrew into herself, taking refuge in formality. “Forgive me, high one,” she said in an even voice, setting her face and looking down at the table. She was soft and gentle again, but sadness drifted from her. “The familiarity with which we speak sometimes allows me to forget who and what you are.” She fell silent, staring at her hands and taking ragged breaths.
He had hoped for a more positive response. He suppressed disappointment as she continued to gaze at her hands on the table, letting the silence lengthen. If he told her the truth, he risked an even stronger reaction.
“I asked him to read you because I know you hide something,” he said.
/> Her head jerked up, and she flared with indignation again. “I’m not a spook!”
“I did not say you were.”
She grumbled and shifted in her chair. Her gaze wandered to the windows. “I’m just a schoolteacher,” she said. “I’ve never done anything else.”
“Of that much, I am certain,” he said, “but you hide something, all the same. Something which pains you.”
She went still and looked up at him, her eyes huge and frightened. Startled, he extended a hand. “I will never harm you,” he said. “Will you trust me to help you?”
For a moment, it seemed to him as if she might take his hand. Then her presence shattered into panic, and she stood in a rush, knocking her chair backward, staring at his hand as if he might strike her. She paced over to the windows, agitated, hugging herself. Confounded, he went still and remained leaning against the table, allowing her time to calm.
“It’s personal,” she said. “Nothing to do with you, or Kyza, or my sneaky government.” She sat in a low chair near a window and drew her knees up under her chin. “You need not be concerned.”
He pushed away from the table and took a chair near hers. It had everything to do with him, he thought, but pursuing it would only frighten her more. What demon hurt you? he wondered.
“Hey!” She straightened and swiveled to face him. “You put your hand on my shoulder in the transport pod!”
He spread his hands. “Forgive me,” he said. “I could not resist the opportunity to see the hevalrin through the lens of your perceptions. Your wonder was delightful.”
Marianne mumbled something, mollified. She leaned her jaw on one hand and winced.
He sensed pain. “What was that?” he asked, focusing on her.
“Nothing, just a toothache,” she said. “I’ve had them before. It’ll go away.”
He made a motion. “You will see my apothecaries.”
She started to protest. “High one, it’s not—”
“You will see my apothecaries.”
She sighed as a woman in a pale yellow robe entered the room and bowed to the Sural.
“The human proctor has a physical ailment,” he told the woman. “You will examine her and determine what needs to be done for her.”
“Yes, high one,” the woman said. She bowed to Marianne. “Proctor, if you will honor me with your presence in my examination room?”
Marianne sighed again and quit her chair to follow the apothecary.
<<>>
“I need to have my wisdom teeth aligned,” Marianne told the Admiral. “The Sural’s apothecary said the toothaches are just going to keep getting worse until I do. The Tolari have advanced enough dentistry to do it, but they need anesthetics for it and they don’t have any which will work on me. They need those and some basic physiological information, and they can do it.”
“Most people get their alignment done at age twelve,” the Admiral said with ill humor. “Why didn’t your parents have it done then?”
Marianne winced a little. “They had other worries at the time.”
The Admiral grunted. “All right, I think I can okay this on my own authority, but I want to check on a few things first to be sure. I’ll get back to you tomorrow on it.”
“That’s more than soon enough, Admiral. It’s not an emergency.”
“Howard out.”
<<>>
Marianne fidgeted with her hands as the Sural’s head apothecary prepared her for the procedure. The apothecary, a serene and graying woman who went about her work with grace and a sure touch, shunned the dental instruments phased down from the ship in favor of her own arcane devices.
After making sure Marianne couldn’t feel what she did, she prodded and pulled with various gadgets for what felt like a half hour. Marianne had no idea what the woman did. From cheekbones to chin she had no feeling, and she wasn’t even sure when her mouth was open or shut unless her ears happened to wiggle. She closed her eyes and recited poetry to herself, trying to ignore the strange non-sensation, until the apothecary called her name to get her attention.
“We are finished, proctor,” she said.
Marianne opened her eyes and tried to smile. The lower half of her face refused to work. She would have frowned, but she couldn’t do that either. She knitted her eyebrows together.
“Forgive me, proctor, but your ship did not phase down an antidote for the anesthetic,” the healer apologized. “It will be some time before sensation returns. Until it does, I suggest you drink with care and avoid eating. You will have some discomfort. When you need relief from it, have a servant summon me.”
Marianne nodded. She sat up and bowed her gratitude rather than try to speak and embarrass herself. The apothecary accompanied her to the door of her quarters. She bowed her thanks again and headed to her sleeping mat for a nap.
The next morning, she could eat nothing for the pain in her face and had to make a morning meal of tea. As she sipped, its warmth soothed her aching jaws. Absorbed in her misery, she didn’t notice the Sural until he took his usual place at the table. Kyza carried her food into the kitchen.
“Proctor,” the Sural said. Something in his tone prompted her to meet his eyes. His brows creased together, and his mouth was a horizontal slash. “It is not only for your own sake you must see my apothecary.” He nodded toward the kitchen. “Our children find pain in others difficult to tolerate. Kyza is avoiding you for it.”
“Oh,” she said.
He gestured. “You will go with my apothecary,” he ordered as the yellow-robed woman entered the room.
She yielded, too miserable to argue. “Yes, high one,” she said, getting up to follow her.
<<>>
The Sural worked in his study, sorting through reports and composing proposals to his allies. A presence came into range and approached—Storaas, the one individual allowed unannounced into his private apartments. The old man stopped before the desk and waited.
“Speak,” the Sural murmured, half his attention on a report.
“While Kyza bonded to you, I had opportunity to read Marianne.”
He riveted his attention on the old tutor. He straightened and put his tablet aside, lacing his fingers together in front of him. “Tell me.”
Storaas explained the wound he had seen. He could not identify the injury with any certainty, but the Sural had done some research into human crimes. He thought he might know.
“High one—the wound is deep,” Storaas finished.
The Sural nodded and sat at the desk for a long time, tapping his thumbs together, thinking, his barriers shut. When he wished, he could make himself as unreadable as a stone wall, even to one as sensitive as Storaas. He stood and walked to the window to gaze out on his province. Sighing, he closed his eyes and opened his empathic barriers enough to let Storaas see what he felt.
“A human life is very short, high one,” the old man said. “Very short indeed.”
The Sural shook his head. “That could perhaps be remedied,” he said, in an almost inaudible murmur, as he paced back to the desk. In a louder voice, he continued, “I have waited, Storaas. I have been patient. I have offered her nothing but kindness and understanding, but after ten seasons, she has not yet begun to trust me.” He stood with his back to Storaas for a time, gripping the desk with whitened knuckles, then loosed his grip and turned to look at the ancient man who had once been his tutor.
“Do you have any advice, old friend?” he asked.
Chapter Eight
Marianne spent her fourth winter on Tolar trying to expand Kyza’s vocabulary, while the girl embarked on a rigorous physical conditioning program, learning to camouflage for longer and longer periods and sparring with the Sural’s guards. Marianne often witnessed the camouflage exercises, since those took place daily in the library. The physical training was another matter. That took place elsewhere in the stronghold, and she heard about it from the Sural, who left out the details while allowing his pride to show. Kyza, he reported, took after
him, with a real talent for physical combat and a drive for excellence at everything she did.
A month into winter—according to the Alexander’s calendar—Marianne asked to see Kyza’s physical training. Her interest seemed to please Storaas, and he suggested she follow them that morning to the guard wing’s lower level, an area of the stronghold she’d never explored.
A large arena occupied most of the lower level. Guards exercised and sparred in twos and threes, staying within mat-covered areas of various shapes and sizes, some clear and others filled with obstacles. At the far end of the huge room, a few children gathered around a sturdily-built Suralian who carried himself with an air of easy authority. Kyza headed toward them, Marianne and Storaas following in her wake.
“The head guard,” Storaas murmured as they approached. “He teaches Kyza and a few of the guards’ heirs. See—they are pairing off now.”
The guard matched Kyza with a boy a little older and taller than she. The pairs of children spread out and circled each other.
“Begin,” the head guard called.
What began, Marianne thought, resembled an acrobatic display. It bore no resemblance to the martial arts she had expected. The children spun, flipped, and somersaulted away from and toward each other.
“What are they trying to do?” she asked Storaas.
“A touch to the hands, face or neck ends the match,” he answered.
“Just a touch?”
He nodded. “As guards, they will carry drugged needles on their fingertips. A touch imitates the needle’s prick. The defeated child drops to the floor to acknowledge it.”
“The Sural told me about the needles, but I didn’t know high ones carried them as well.” She cocked her head.
Storaas uttered a soft chuckle. “No, she will never carry a needle. She must first learn to fight as the guards do. Then she will learn to fight as a high one.”
“And learn to kill.” Marianne shuddered and turned her attention back to the children. The matches had not lasted long—a minute, perhaps two. As Marianne refocused on them, Kyza managed to touch her opponent’s hand, and the boy dropped to the mat. She grinned and offered him a hand up.
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