“Very good, child,” Storaas said.
Kyza turned to the old proctor with a grin, then looked up behind him. Her face brightened. “Father!” she called.
Marianne turned. The Sural, winter-idle and smiling, had wandered in. She assumed he came to observe his daughter’s training. Kyza launched herself at him. His smile tilted as he dodged, eyes dancing. Marianne had never seen anyone move so fast, as he kept out of Kyza’s way, his motions blurring as he spun or somersaulted. After giving her a good workout, he touched her face as he flipped over her head. Kyza dropped to the mat, breathing hard but grinning. The Sural chuckled and scooped her off the floor into a hug. His face shone with open approval.
“You improve, daughter,” he said.
“I will best you yet!” she replied.
He chuckled again as he set her on the mats. “First you must best all the guards.”
“I will, Father. You will see!”
He smiled and propelled her back toward the head guard with a pat between the shoulders, then headed for an open bathing area Marianne hadn’t noticed. She glanced over again to see the Sural pulling off his clothing as he walked. Face heating, she turned away.
Oh my God. She glanced over her shoulder as he bathed. Hard muscle rippled as he rubbed soap over skin like cinnamon caramel. His body seemed to be as free of hair as his face, except— Her face grew hotter, and she turned back to face the children.
Beside her, Storaas chuckled.
“You’re reading me.” She could hear the aggrieved tone in her own voice.
“Forgive me, proctor, but you are broadcasting,” he replied. “We do not have your human nudity taboos. If his form pleases you, you are free to admire it. He finds a woman’s appreciation gratifying.”
She blushed again and turned her back on Storaas, watching the children spar. The old man continued chuckling. She sighed, trying to quell a rising exasperation.
“If you will excuse me, proctor,” she said through her teeth and walked away.
Back on the main floor, she strolled into the guest wing common room and dropped into a chair facing the windows, thinking about the Sural. His form pleased her, all right. She gave herself a mental kick and told herself he was her employer. Notions of anything more than casual friendship were a fantasy she could not allow herself, but the Sural didn’t make that any easier. He’d always treated her with kindness, but during the past Tolari year, her fourth on Tolar, his behavior toward her had grown even kinder, and it made him so damned appealing. Professionalism, along with a conviction he couldn’t think of her as anything more than a friend, kept her from making a fool of herself. She talked to herself, reciting the litany of reasons why only an idiot would look for more.
The litany calmed her enough to consider the Sural in a more even light. When the winter set in, he’d started to bring books from a personal collection of manuscripts and spent hours with her in the common room, poring over hand-written poetry and Tolari art prints in brilliant colors. She filled her reports to the ship with descriptions of ancient Tolari landscape art and literary genres. She had animated conversations with Laura about the landscapes. The Admiral’s wife was an avid patron of the arts, and the depth of her knowledge surprised Marianne.
Then the Sural had given her a critical introduction to Tolari music. The recordings he played for her were, without exception, a single instrument playing complex melodies. Marianne, whose musical taste ran to twenty-fourth century orchestral music, found it difficult to enjoy listening to Tolari music for extended periods, although she had begun to develop some liking for a wind instrument called the laerta.
Marianne pulled her thoughts back to the present and quit her chair to stand at the windows. Ice coated them, distorting the view of the landscape outside, where snow blanketed the garden, the plateau, and the glacier-strewn mountains beyond. She laid her forehead against the frigid window, hoping it would cool her agitation. Her breath steamed. She thought about ice, and snow, and glaciers.
Music filled the room, a Tolari laerta playing a melancholy air. She turned to see the Sural in the doorway, a small stack of books in his arms. He entered the room and took a seat.
“What did you think of my daughter’s training?” he asked.
She sat in the next chair, the heat returning to her face. His eyes fixed on her blush. “She seems to—to be as talented as you’ve said,” she stammered.
He nodded, lips twitching, then to her relief, changed the subject. “This,” he waved a hand in the air, “is a recording of a performance Corvestal gave during my grandmother’s time. He was a great musician with a wondrous gift. He played at the peak of his abilities when he came to give this concert. Years later, before he walked into the dark, he entrusted to me his laerta. It is an exquisite instrument. I hold it in trust for the next great player.”
“Why did he go into the dark?” she asked.
“A landslide killed his bond-partner,” he answered. “She was a geologist on a field investigation. Corvestal himself sustained injuries in the same accident. He would have recovered, but he would not live without his beloved. A great loss.”
She winced. “Forgive me.”
“It is a common response to a bond-partner’s death.”
They listened without speaking for a time, her face cooling.
“You know, we have an instrument with a sound similar to the laerta,” Marianne said, breaking the quiet.
“Tell me.”
“It’s called an oboe. The musician blows into the instrument through a folded reed. It’s quite lovely and difficult to play.”
“Your people write music composed of many instruments playing at once,” he said. “I have heard some samples. Quite interesting.”
She smiled, then pulled her mouth to one side. “Central Command didn’t allow me to keep my music collection on my library tablet, or I’d play some for you.”
“A pity.”
“I could try begging and pleading to get it back,” she offered.
He smiled. “I am a patient man,” he said. “I will hear this music, in time.”
“Your lives are a lot longer than ours, aren’t they?”
He nodded.
“How long?”
He shook his head. “For now, I cannot tell you that,” he answered. “You will know, in time. Have patience.”
“I’m a schoolteacher. I taught high schoolers—they’re adolescents. I had to be patient, or I would have lost my mind.”
He made an amused sound. “You are far too young to have true patience, proctor.”
“And I suppose you’re an old man?”
“That would depend upon whose definition you use. For a Tolari, I am not old at all. For a human?” He spread his hands. “I cannot tell you.” She grumbled, and he chuckled. “Storaas—I can say he is truly old.”
“And sad,” Marianne added.
The Sural shot her a sharp look, then nodded. “Very astute,” he said.
“No, I just catch him sometimes staring out the windows toward the west—toward where all the tea plantations are in the Kentar Valley—with the deepest, saddest look on his face,” she explained. “Even I can tell, and I’m bad at reading others, even for a human.”
One black eyebrow climbed his forehead. “I must persuade him,” he murmured.
“What?”
He studied Marianne, considering what to say. She glanced back, her curiosity showing on her face as well as in her emotional landscape, long since accustomed to and no longer perturbed by what she called ‘Tolari stares.’ “Storaas needs to visit the Jorann,” he said, after a time. “I cannot persuade him.”
“Who’s he?”
“She.”
“Who’s she, then?”
“Our highest one.”
Marianne straightened. “There’s someone higher-ranked than you?” she asked, blinking.
He nodded, enjoying the empathic flare of her astonishment. “Highest rank and highest status. She guides the
ruling caste, and can raise, lower, or change the rank or status of anyone at her whim, but she seldom interferes in our affairs. To be summoned into her presence is a high honor. Any of us can request to see her.”
“So she’s like a kind of pope.”
The Sural cocked his head, gazing past her as he thought about it. “That would be a—loose—way to describe her role in our culture,” he answered.
“Why does Storaas need to see her?”
He paused again. “She can heal what distresses him.”
Marianne stopped. “I shouldn’t ask, should I?”
“No, you should not,” the Sural answered, smoothing his face into a gentle expression. “I would not answer if you did. He would know.”
“High one—” she started.
“Yes, proctor?”
“You’ve become very candid with me of late.”
He raised an eyebrow at her, letting one side of his mouth curve up. “Having an alien in my stronghold has advantages.”
“Ah, I see,” she said. “Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown. You can say things to me you can’t tell anyone else.”
“Indeed.”
She fell silent for a time, listening to the music, allowing it to soothe away the last of the agitation she had radiated in the arena. The Sural extended his senses toward her, keeping a light contact, pleased she had relaxed in his presence. As her calm deepened, curiosity sparked through her.
“High one?” she asked.
“Yes, proctor?”
“Don’t you have a name?”
He started and stared at her, pulling his senses back. Instinct howled at him to thrust her away. He gritted his teeth. He refused—refused—to be a slave to his instincts. Marianne began to shift in her chair and radiate feelings of awkwardness.
When he could trust himself to speak, he met her eyes, smiled, and explained. “When most Tolari rulers take power,” he said, “the Jorann takes their names from them and bonds them to their people. From that day onward, we identify them as their provinces. I am the Sural of Suralia. I have pledged my honor and my life to every man, woman and child of my province. I cannot be identified apart from my people again, and to lose them would kill me.”
“That’s why you would walk into the dark if your province were destroyed?”
“I would die if I lost my people, whether I walked into the dark or not.”
The Sural stared out the icy windows at the distorted view of the glaciers. He closed his eyes, seeing his people glowing like stars around him, then opened them and tapped his tablet. The music changed, the soft sound of a stringed instrument filling the room.
Marianne took a deep breath and sighed, closing her eyes as she listened, a gentle smile curving her lips. “Mm, that’s nice,” she murmured.
The Sural gazed at her, stomach clenched in longing, yearning for her to turn such a smile on him. He tore his eyes away from her face and pulled a book from the stack he had brought, sadness descending over him as he studied its cover.
Marianne seemed to sense his mood and opened her eyes. “Is that special?” she asked, pointing at the book with her chin.
He nodded. “My father’s poetry.”
“I didn’t know your father was a poet,” she said, straightening, an eager note entering her voice. “I’d love to hear something he wrote.”
“You may find it disturbing.”
“It’s that dark?”
“No,” he answered. “Not dark.”
“Then I can’t see the problem,” she said.
The Sural raised an eyebrow and eyed her. Perhaps. He debated with himself. She seemed more receptive than usual. Storaas would advise him against doing anything to stir her. Still, the Sural had not ruled as long as he had without taking an occasional risk—and she had asked. “Lean back,” he told her. “Close your eyes.”
She did as he asked, settling herself back. He opened the book. By chance, it fell open to the last poem his father had ever written, a ballad poured out to the woman he loved, composed mere hours before he died. It was a raw first draft, intense and passionate—as all his father’s poetry was intense and passionate. The wisdom of reading any poem his father wrote to Marianne seemed doubtful, much less that one. He pushed the misgivings aside and began to read aloud, finding a strange relief in the opportunity to give voice to his own feelings without the complication of Marianne discovering how he felt.
Marianne drew in a breath and blushed as the Sural began to read a deep and passionate poem about his father’s love for a beautiful woman. With her eyes closed, she could almost imagine the Sural spoke the words to her, something so tender and so—so personal—haunted his voice. She let out the breath with a sigh and wondered if the Sural had inherited his father’s passion. Could such an impassive man be so tender, such a powerful man be so gentle? Gentle... not like... she pushed away unbidden memories and concentrated on the idea of tender and gentle. She might be able to cope with that. Maybe.
The Sural sensed her emotions change with a rising heart. Marianne had allowed the poem to affect her. He sensed a stab of yearning pierce her—and then watched in helpless frustration as a powerful wave of panic swept away the yearning. He stopped speaking as Marianne bolted out from her seat and strode to the windows, pacing back and forth in agitation.
Of all the days he had to choose to read something like that to her, it had to be a day when she already struggled. Her hands fisted even while her insides quivered. She didn’t need this, on top of that look at him in the arena—dear God, he was attractive. He was just a friend. She gave herself a fierce mental kick. Just a friend.
The Sural blinked and took the empathic blow in silence, his heart sinking. With slow and careful movements, he rose and moved not toward her, but to one side. Her emotions roiled, and he could not know what she might do if he came too near. The anger triggered by her panic had eclipsed her normal gentleness. What did she fear?
What Storaas had said came to mind. Did she fear he might hurt her? Despite his many assurances? He made a subtle hand gesture, a casual signal to the guards to remain camouflaged and silent. She seemed, for the moment, to have forgotten them. He leaned against the window, arms crossed over his chest, face schooled into warm gentleness.
“Who hurt you?” he asked.
She stopped pacing. “No one,” she lied, her sharp look daring him to contradict her. She resumed the restless pacing. “You were right,” she snapped before he could point out the lie. “I did find your father’s poetry disturbing. Your father wrote that. How can you read it? It’s like—it’s like—gah!” She shuddered.
“Forgive me,” he murmured, bending into a profound bow.
Marianne stopped pacing again, surprised at both the apology and the bow, and turned her back on him, not wanting him to see her face. She wanted to throw herself into his arms. She fought it down, surprised, telling herself how inappropriate that would be. Get a grip, girl! she told herself with another furious mental blow. Deep winter gripped the province, leaving the Sural with little to do. He was bored. He couldn’t realize how a human would react to such a poem. How she would.
That had to be it—he just didn’t realize. She tried to imagine the look on his face if she had acted on the urge to throw herself at him. Surprise, of course. Discomfort, very likely. Scorn? She didn’t think she could face the possibility.
She tightened her arms around her ribcage and took a shaky breath. Then she let her arms fall to her sides and turned to face him.
He was gone.
<<>>
The Sural cursed, long and eloquently, as he shattered a training pell. The arena fell silent, the guards eyeing him as they moved away, their motions slow and deliberate. He expelled a breath and forced his muscles to relax. Alarming the guards solved nothing. Destroying their training equipment solved even less.
He could not have stopped Marianne’s self-destructive spiral. He moved to an undamaged pell and landed a hard but controlled blow. If he had re
vealed how much of her pain and conflict he could sense, would she have turned to him?
He vaulted up and over and used his momentum to kick the top of the pell as if he were crushing the skull of the man—it had to have been a man—who had hurt her. No. Such a revelation would have humiliated her. He could not risk that. So instead, he had stood in silence while she rejected him.
Not a rejection. The pell shuddered at a spinning kick delivered with more force than he intended. How could she reject him when she saw only his friendship? He knew she valued that.
Storaas came into range. The Sural shut him out and continued pummeling the pell with hands and peds. Someone had informed the old man of his mood, or perhaps he had come upon Marianne, who must still be in turmoil, and deduced that his ruler had made a mistake. Whatever the case, he had no desire to discuss the matter.
Not receiving permission to speak, Storaas moved into his line of sight. The Sural ceased his attack on the pell and stared. The old proctor cradled a large bottle of spirits in one arm.
The Sural nodded. “My quarters.”
<<>>
The winter felt long to Marianne, fraught as it was. She greeted spring and the chance to get outside with gratitude. The temperatures were still winter cold by her standards, but it had warmed enough to venture out to a gazebo to take some fresh air in the garden, where laborers had dug paths through the snow. She supposed some hidden technology maintained the strange warmth in the graceful pavilions.
Even she could see, unperceptive though she sometimes was, that the Sural had withdrawn from her after the incident with the poetry. He’d avoided her for several days, then resumed spending his free time with her, but for much of the winter, it just wasn’t the same. Adeline had teased her without mercy, forwarding the ridiculous notion that he had acted like a spurned lover, not the hurt friend Marianne assumed. Marianne herself wasn’t sure what had possessed her to turn on him. He had only read to her, even if the subject matter was rather—intimate. She missed the easy friendship which had seemed to blossom between them during the first part of winter.
The ease and friendship had begun to return during the last few tens of days—it amused her to find herself counting time in Tolari terms. The Sural started sharing manuscripts of short stories from a celebrated author of several hundred years earlier. The stories consisted of succinct and gripping accounts of everything from spiritual epiphanies to psychological studies. The insights she gained into Tolari thinking fascinated her, but the Sural often had to explain motivations the author assumed the reader would know. The only story the Sural himself found fault with was one in which the protagonist walked into the dark.
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