“Can you go where he’s going?” Kayla asked.
“No,” Vasiht’h said.
The girls contemplated this in thoughtful silence. Then Kayla crawled into the circle of Vasiht’h’s forelegs and stretched herself up to hug him. “I’m sorry,” she said.
He rested her head against his shoulder.
Outside the room, Jill asked, “How’s Sleeping Beauty?”
“Drowning in academia, and loving it,” Vasiht’h said. “He’s putting them all to bed, as an apology for missing half the visit.”
“Mm,” she said. “And how’s the research going?”
“Well,” Vasiht’h said.
She laughed. “And that surprises you?”
“I was a little nervous, moving next door,” he said. “But the methods seem to work on people who’ve never heard of me.” He smiled, lopsided. “By this time, everyone here seems to know who I am.”
“I wonder why,” Jill said, chuckling. “So, can I come to you for a private session?”
“I don’t know how, since I have no license!” Vasiht’h said.
She pressed her fist against his shoulder, gentle but firm. “Yes? And? This is a serious question. When can I schedule a visit? Do I have to wait until you get a doctorate, or will you still not have a license to practice then?”
“A doctorate in research psychology doesn’t come with a license to practice therapy,” Vasiht’h said. “At least not on the Core worlds.”
“Then maybe I can be part of a private study?” she said. At his expression, she said, “I’m serious. I want a chance to go through your therapy. It works. Hell, if it worked on Kievan, it’ll work on anyone.”
Vasiht’h glanced up at her, frowning. “You really mean that.”
“Yes?” she said.
Jahir joined them, looking wan but upright. “They sleep and dream of unicorns. Hopefully.”
“Hopefully?” Jill asked.
“Either that, or of the rudiments of reading medical displays in critical care units,” Jahir said.
“At least that won’t be a big surprise for them,” she said, shaking her head. “You really that eager to join us, alet?”
“Time,” Jahir said, “is wasting.” He inclined his head to her and headed to the stairwell.
Looking after him, Jill said, “That sounds like a problem waiting to explode.”
“Implode, more likely,” Vasiht’h said and followed. As he reached the stairwell, he heard Jill call after him, “Just tell me when and I’ll be there! Bells on!”
“Arranging something?” Jahir asked as the Glaseah caught up to him on the stairs.
“She wants to know if she can do the therapy I’m testing,” Vasiht’h said, trying not to sound as testy as he was. “I’ve told her I have no license to practice. I think she keeps forgetting on purpose.”
“It is difficult to blame her,” Jahir said. “The approach is novel, it works, and you are singularly well-suited to its application.”
“I am?” Vasiht’h said, startled.
“You have a gentle touch,” Jahir said, and then they were in the lobby. By the time they’d navigated the crush of people, they were outside and the moment was gone, and with it Vasiht’h’s desire to pursue it. What would he do if Jahir was right? Wasn’t it better not to know? Why did he feel like that described most of his life by now?
The weather grew colder, and brought midterms: Jahir felt as if he was living between the covers of books in the weeks immediately before the exams, but they came, and he passed them, and their passage brought a respite from lectures. He had the time and energy to help Vasiht’h prepare buttersquash soup for the quadmate meeting, the first he’d attend since the semester’s beginning. There was something supremely calming about cutting the vegetables while his roommate worked at the sink behind him. The mindtouch brought him hints of harmony, and they smelled like the Glaseahn goddess’s incense.
That night he endured the good-natured teasing at the table, and reflected as he bore it that he had… friends. More friends than he’d anticipated making here. KindlesFlame and Kandara among the faculty; the quadmates here; the children at the hospital, and Berquist… and Vasiht’h, chief and best among them. It was on his mind as he prepared for bed later, his movements slowed by the weight of his thoughts. It was not so easy, making friends among his own kind. The people who’d sworn fealty to him would never have felt easy enough in his presence to befriend him, and it was his responsibility not to discomfit them with overtures they would feel unable to reject. The people of his own station were deeply entrenched in the politics of scarcity that afflicted them: they were all too busy protecting their scant resources to trust one another.
The people here, though, made friends as easily as breathing. And he’d expected his aloofness to protect him from that, and it might have… had he actually wanted to be protected.
He sighed and put his head down, and thought that he had brought all this on himself, and gladly, and had no idea yet where it might lead.
When the dream garden returned that night, he was not frantically trying to save the flowers that were growing from it already decayed. He was sitting on a stool in the middle of it, and all around him were the corpses, already decomposed, gone to gray dust. The greenery at the garden’s edges was creeping inward, felting the bones, subsuming them, and soon enough he was left there, with nothing, not even clear memory of what he’d lost.
I am alone, he thought.
No, you’re not.
He woke slowly, without violence. His parted lashes were damp, but his melancholy had been brushed away by a gentle hand. He was not surprised to find Vasiht’h sleeping on the ground by the door. Setting his head back on the pillow, he sent a surge of wordless gratitude, and felt an equally wordless reply, muzzy with sleep. Jahir closed his eyes and dreamed no more of gardens.
CHAPTER 30
It had not been Vasiht’h’s intention to intrude on his roommate’s sleeping mind, but he’d done it so often for subjects that he’d reacted without thinking, and insinuated himself into the dream just deeply enough to dispel it. He’d slipped to the floor, too exhausted for worry, and had slept until he’d felt the gift of Jahir’s gratitude. That had soothed him in a place he hadn’t known he needed it.
But what he’d seen and felt in those moments stayed with him, from the moment of waking, kinked up on the floor of his roommate’s room, to the weeks after as fall gave way to winter and the semester neared its close. The flowers, the sense of being surrounded, and yet isolate… the melancholy of it. He stayed vigilant, but Jahir did not have another nightmare, not that he knew of… but Vasiht’h woke several times from dreams where he wandered the Eldritch’s garden, looking for something and failing to find it. As the weeks continued, his own dreams grew more urgent, until he began waking from them panting and miserable. He knew then what he was looking for, but even knowing didn’t make the dreams go away.
Near finals week, he came home from one of the quadmate gatherings with Luci. The Harat-Shar followed him into the kitchen, holding one of the trays, and glanced at the dark, still rooms, the unlit hearth. Wrinkling her nose, she said, “Nothing says trouble like a quiet house.”
“Jahir’s asleep, that’s all,” Vasiht’h said, taking the tray from her and finding a small bowl for the last of the cobbler.
“Uh-huh,” Luci said, hopping onto one of the stools at the counter.
Vasiht’h glanced at her over his shoulder, and she lifted her brows slowly. He made a face. “Luci. Really.”
“Don’t really me, arii. I’ve cried on your shoulder, and I don’t cry on anyone’s shoulder. If you can’t tell me your woes, who can you tell?”
“There’s no woe to share,” Vasiht’h said, stubborn. “Jahir’s not avoiding us, he’s just busy with school.”
“Mmm.”
He started making an herbal tea, more because he needed to calm himself than to be hospitable. “I mean that. He’s taking six classes this semeste
r. Anyone would be overloaded. He needs his sleep.”
“Right.”
“And he’s doing well, so obviously the studying’s working,” Vasiht’h continued, getting out one cup, then remembering Luci and pulling down another.
“Of course.”
He eyed her, then scowled.
“What? I haven’t said anything!” she said.
“It’s what you’re not saying that’s getting to me,” Vasiht’h said. He poured for them both and handed her the cup.
“If you love him,” Luci said. “You should tell him.”
He put his cup down hard enough to rattle the saucer.
This time she only lifted one brow.
“I don’t love him,” Vasiht’h growled.
“Not the way you think I’m intimating, no,” Luci said. “Not like romp with him in the sheets love. But you do love him. Don’t make the mistake of assuming that just because I’m Harat-Shar I’m not aware of those other kinds of love.” She wrinkled her nose. “You of all people should know better.”
Vasiht’h looked away.
“Right?”
“I know,” he said. “I know you know. I know you weren’t suggesting… anything like that. But I don’t—”
“Love him?” Luci snorted. “You don’t believe in lying to other people, from what I’ve seen, so this must mean you’re in denial.”
“Luci, I can’t be in love with him,” Vasiht’h said, pained.
“On that count you’re absolutely wrong,” Luci answered. “You can be and you are, and we both know it. And you’re upset because at the rate he’s chewing through school he’s going to be gone soon. Yes?”
He massaged his temples. “Luci—”
“Yes?”
“Yes!” he said. “Yes. But I don’t see what good it will do to tell him!”
“Because he can’t change his plans unless he knows what he’d lose if he didn’t,” Luci said, exasperated.
“And you think I’d have a problem with saying this sort of thing out loud,” Vasiht’h said, ears flattening. “He’s Eldritch. For all I know, they think of love so narrowly that he’ll completely misinterpret it, or discount it, or Goddess knows. We don’t know their customs, Luci. I don’t know his customs. All I’d probably accomplish is to make him uncomfortable.”
“But what if you’re wrong?” she said. “What if they have a tradition of platonic love? For all you know they revere agape, or even prefer homosexual—sorry, homosocial—attachments.”
“Somehow I doubt that,” Vasiht’h muttered.
“Vasiht’h,” Luci said, and sighed. “Vasiht’h. Isn’t it worth trying for what you might gain?”
“Say I tell him I care about him. And he agrees that he really cares about me. What then? We’re still planning very different lives.” He looked at her across the counter. “Can you honestly sit there and tell me that just loving someone is enough? It’s not! It’s not. You have to want the same things out of life. You have to be willing to walk the same path.”
She deflated visibly.
“Luci… Luci, I’m sorry.” He rubbed his face with one hand, and it was trembling. “I don’t mean to be harsh. I just… I never thought I’d be sitting on this side of the fence.”
“I know,” she said, quietly. “And maybe… maybe I’m telling you to do it because I hope you’ll have a happier ending than I did.”
He walked around the counter and hugged her.
“But what if it worked?” she asked against his shoulder.
“And what if it didn’t?” Vasiht’h replied.
She sighed.
Finals came and went, and took what few hopes Vasiht’h had with them; his roommate shared news of his triumph before tottering to the couch and falling asleep there in front of the cold hearth. For a long time, Vasiht’h sat across from him and stared at him, thinking about Luci’s observation—accusation, more like. Was it love, to hate the thought of losing someone? To want their company? To feel so easy around them? He studied Jahir’s face and had no desire to touch it, to caress it, to write poetry about it the way he’d observed some of his classmates doing when they’d fallen in love. Was trying to decide whether Jahir’s eyes were the color of spring’s wildflower honey, or summer’s clover honey, the same impulse? He went to his room and opened the topmost drawer of his table, withdrawing the folded paper Goddess. Setting Her on the surface, he said, “I know what You would tell me to do. But Your words shape reality. The rest of us don’t have that guarantee.”
He sighed and put his head down on the table.
Jahir spent most of the winter holiday recuperating, and there was something charming about that, too, something that managed to wring Vasiht’h’s heart. Maybe it was how casually the Eldritch let him see that imperfection. When he left the apartment, he was impeccable: never a hair out of place, all the folds of his clothes crisp, his shoulders and back straight. To have him limp on the couch in front of the fire, in rumpled nightclothes, with his head on an arm as he drowsed in all evidence of contentment…
“When do we start the cooking?” Jahir asked as the end of year approached.
Vasiht’h padded to the great room and sat across from the Eldritch, who hadn’t even raised his head to ask the question. “This year, Mera and Leina are hosting. She has some recipes she wants to try out.”
That won him the Eldritch’s attention, and Jahir looked up with narrowed eyes. His puzzlement felt like a breeze humid with disappointment. “I thought you liked to host?”
“I do, but it’s a lot of work, and you’re tired,” Vasiht’h said. “I thought it would be easier on us both to let someone else do the heavy lifting this year.”
And as clear as the taste of that breeze, he heard the words hanging between them: But this is the last time—and then Jahir shook himself, a minute twitch of chin. When he opened his eyes, he had composed himself. “We should at least bring something.”
“Mera asked for the mulled wine again,” Vasiht’h said, fighting the tension in his breast. “And I’ll bring some dessert. You know me and cookies.”
“I do,” Jahir murmured. And smiled, though the smile didn’t lighten his eyes. “I’ll see to the wine, then.”
Later that evening, Jahir sat in his room, reading his mother’s correspondence. She did not write with the frequency his roommate’s family seemed to, but now and then she sent him letters on how matters fared at home on the estate. She’d also told him about the summer spent attending the Queen, and that letter had included some frank mention of the difficulties in court. He in turn had told her about the children and his mentors, about his decision to pursue a course that would see him working in a hospital… and about Vasiht’h.
He opened her latest, hoping to quiet his heart with the details of management, and their implication of the pastoral and unchanging life he’d left behind. It soothed him admirably until he reached the end:
How wonderful it is to hear you have made such a fast friend in your alien roommate. Despite Galare being home to the staunchest advocates for the Alliance, we have yet to secure the honor of House Jisiensire. Fasianyl Sera Jisiensire was the last Eldritch to have a strong relationship with an outworlder, and that was centuries ago, when Liolesa was new to her throne. Perhaps you will be the next, and the Seni Galare will be able to take up the Queen’s banner, and advance her cause.
Jahir turned from the projection and pressed his thumb under the ridge of his brow, working at the nascent headache. Fasianyl’s friendship with Sellelvi was famous; one could hardly walk at court without hearing of it, given Liolesa’s sympathies for the Alliance. The people who supported her were proud of how she’d welcomed the alien, how she’d even found a way to have her adopted into Jisiensire. The people who hated the Queen held it up as an example of the unnatural policies she would foist on them if given free rein.
But no one had talked about what became of Fasianyl after solidifying her famous relationship with Sellelvi… because she’d withdrawn
from society following Sellelvi’s death, so completely, in fact, that no one knew where she was. Not even Liolesa’s detractors would speculate on the matter; perhaps they did not want to admit that the death of a ‘mortal’ could affect one of their kind so powerfully.
Perhaps, he thought, Fasianyl had gone to the Alliance, and that was why no one had heard from her. Or perhaps she had died young of a broken heart. Jahir glanced at the door leading out of his room and felt a frisson of apprehension.
CHAPTER 31
Leina’s end of year feast was nicely done, Vasiht’h thought; scheduled before the new year, but that was the Seersan custom. He brought a tray of peppermint crinkles and fancy cookies; Jahir brought the wine and a stack of firewood, guessing that Leina and Mera didn’t use their fireplace—which they didn’t, so they were delighted by the gift. They spent a pleasant evening eating, talking, and eating more, and if there was something missing from the experience, it was still good to spend time with friends.
Vasiht’h wasn’t expecting to wake to the smell of baking bread on New Year’s Day. He lifted his head and sniffed, licked his teeth and then heaved himself off the pillows to investigate. The feast bread was in the oven: he peeked inside and saw that Jahir had woven it into a wreath, and a far more credible one than his mother had ever managed. The coffee cups had been set out in anticipation of breakfast, and there was jam in stasis, and fresh-ground nut butter—Vasiht’h uncapped it and smelled, and got back the ambrosial scent of more-almond. He couldn’t imagine how much that had cost… no, he could, and it was extravagant as a condiment for a single meal.
The author of this feast was sleeping in his room, sprawled on top of the sheets as if he’d only just returned there. Vasiht’h paused at the door, noting the lines beneath the eyes and the shadows too distinct beneath the cheekbones. His roommate might be passing his classes, but it was taking a physical toll. Did he notice?
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