Dad? Why should he mind? He’s far more likely to suggest that Afra will be just the stabilizing influence I need!
Possibly.
Damia frowned, regarding her grandmother with apprehension. Isthia had a habit of predicting reactions.
How could they object to Afra? They both know him so well. And he’s a T-3.
He’s also nearly a quarter of a century your senior.
Don’t put it like that, Isthia. It’s not as if age makes that much difference for Talents! Damia was openly scornful. I know mother won’t like it.
Isthia perched on the low chest, sipping her drink. Nonsense, although you may hear words like “backlash,” “martyrdom,” “self-sacrifice,” “compensation.” You’ll improve your position if your attitude toward him is devoid of guilt or the least tinge of reparation for the Sodan disaster.
Damia flinched, hunching against the pain of that reminder.
Sorry, love, Isthia shot back in sincere apology.
Do they hate me? For not saving Larak?
Slipping off the chest, Isthia embraced Damia in tender, loving arms. No, love. No one hates or blames you for that. Nothing could have saved Larak. Unfortunately!
I will never, never, NEVER, let anyone else be focus! Damia said resolutely.
The focus-mind is always at risk in a merge, Damia love, and never is a long time. Don’t store guilt for future use.
Afra stirred and Isthia rose to her feet.
Get him out of that bed and to my kitchen table. He hasn’t eaten properly since we got him here. And you’ve both got to start moving about on your own. Now mind, no mental games until I give the go-ahead! Isthia stood, but her piercing gaze and stern face stressed that prohibition, and the force of the tone she used, no longer a whisper, set Damia’s mind to throbbing: the clearest possible demonstration of her invalid state. Then her whisper returned. I shouldn’t even be talking to you like this now, but you’re able for short distances and I wanted to clear the air privately, she added as she left the room then.
Mulling what Isthia had said, Damia watched as her lover restlessly turned onto his back, and flailed an arm against her. That woke him and he shot upright in the bed, anxious eyes seeking hers, a hesitant, shy smile on the lips that had tantalized her the night before. She found herself blushing and evaded his gaze. Giving herself a stern shake, she lifted her head and met his eyes.
Damia blushing? he teased her, lifting his hand to caress her cheek in a lingering fashion.
“You’re not supposed to ’path, Afra,” she scolded, more because his “tone” was so weak compared to the mental touch he had always projected.
His expression altered subtly and his hand dropped to her bare shoulder.
My love, I will do what I can with what I have, and his tone chided her. And what I have is much better this morning. “Thank you!” he added aloud and, tilting his head, kissed her pursed lips.
The intimate touch was shatteringly electric and once again swept away any half-formed resolution of circumspect behavior while Isthia was in range.
Hold breakfast, she managed to convey to Isthia on a tight thought.
Was that Afra’s soft chuckle for her willing compliance in her mind or Isthia’s for their delay?
“Actually, it’s lunch,” Isthia said blandly when they finally did appear in the kitchen. It was a very pleasant room, south-facing, with windows that opened onto the front with a view of the lane that wound through the forestry to the major link road with Deneb City. Isthia preferred to know who was approaching her retreat so that she could take evasive action if necessary. When she had begun a profound inquiry into metamorphic treatments, she had needed such a refuge. She had no neighbors nearer than sixty kilometers, and that family had absolutely no Talent.
With the courtesy that was second nature to him, Afra settled Damia into a chair at the long table that was work space as well as dining surface. Then, turning his chair around he sat, his arms crossed on its back. He didn’t appear to be watching Isthia intently, but Damia knew that he was. Of Isthia’s earlier observations, Damia had only told him that Isthia had said she was on their side. One of his eyebrows had quirked slightly and his lips had twitched, but he didn’t make any further comment. With Isthia’s emphatic ban on ’pathing, Damia did not try to “hear” what thoughts had crossed his mind.
As Isthia served them coffee, she wondered how her mother and father handled that intimate aspect of their life together. She knew they always kept a light touch but, in each other’s minds constantly? Of course, right now, even the most delicate link could exacerbate. But she could watch him, learn every subtle nuance of body language: had Afra always had such an expressive face? Droll, humorous, pensive, observant? Though he was listening to Isthia, he winked at her.
“I think you two are now able to handle your own convalescence,” Isthia was saying, ladling one of her hearty soups into bowls. She brusquely waved Damia back into her chair when she started to rise and help. “I’ve laid in plenty of supplies. Damia, you are not to ‘reach’ for anything yet. Use the comunit,” and she grinned as she pointed to the unobtrusive set in one corner of the big room. “Prosaic, I know, and nowhere near as swift as ‘lifting’ something but, if I feel either of you ‘lifting’ anything, I’ll slap you back into deep sleep again. Your minds have to rest to recuperate, have to be free of even the pulse of other minds. You won’t be bothered by casual visitors because this place is known to be off-limits, and I’ve made it plain that I’ll flay anyone who disturbs you. Anything you should require,” and her tone suggested that she’d be surprised if she hadn’t anticipated every need, “can be delivered.”
Afra nodded, glancing at Damia to be sure she was as obedient. “What I don’t know is how long we’ll be convalescing. I have absolutely no idea how much time has already elapsed.”
Damia winced at even that tactful reference and, her appetite abruptly disappearing, she put down her spoon.
Isthia gave one of her evasive sniffs. “Sleep,” and she bent a stern look on both Damia and Afra, “was the best remedy. You’ve been kept quiescent—when we could—” and there was an element of exasperation in her manner as she pinned Damia with her stare, “for sixteen days.”
“Oh!”
Isthia laid a comforting hand on Damia’s head as she put her own bowl on the table and sat down beside her granddaughter.
Afra gave an odd chuckle. “No wonder my legs are rubbery.”
Isthia gave one of her sniffs. “A great wonder you’ve been able for anything!”
He refused to rise to the gibe.
“Mother and Dad?” Damia asked anxiously, irritated that it was only now that she thought to inquire.
“I kept them asleep for four days. You deflected a lot of that final thrust, Damia, and saved them from the worst of it. Believe me, you did,” Isthia added when Damia seemed to droop further, remembering who she hadn’t been able to save.
“Who ran FT&T then?” Afra asked in a brisk tone. “Jeran?”
Isthia nodded. “With Cera. They made a formidable team.”
Afra chuckled. “I expect they did. So long as they didn’t noticeably improve on what Rowan and Jeff can do.”
“Some detractors,” Isthia said with a snort of disapproval, “feel that the Gwyn-Ravens have far too much power in FT&T chain of command.”
“Then let them breed up their own Prime Talents,” Afra replied abruptly. “Meanwhile, they should be immensely grateful that Jeff’s planned for every contingency. Who’s working Callisto with the Rowan? Gollee?” and when Isthia nodded, he shrugged. “In that case, I have no need to hurry back. Frankly, this will be the first proper holiday I’ve had, bar the occasional weekend, since I had the gall to apply to the Rowan twenty-eight years ago.”
Damia stared at him, appalled. “Twenty-eight?”
Afra regarded her levelly. “That’s right, love. That’s how long I’ve been Towered. Not that I minded, for I’d nothing else to do with my spare
time.”
“Nothing?” asked Isthia sardonically.
“Nothing,” he said, giving her the same level regard, “that mattered. Unlike you dilettantes, we Tower folk become dedicated—”
“I’d call it enslaved,” Isthia said with a sour look.
“Inseparable from the needs and deeds of our particular Tower.”
“Who’s managing Aurigae?” Damia asked in a guilty panic.
Isthia chuckled, her eyes sparkling. “They’re going to appreciate you when you return, Damia!”
“They do want me back? I will go back?” She hadn’t quite dared to ask yet.
“Since they have to tailor their exports to the abilities of a young T-4 . . .”
“Who?” Damia was abruptly jealous of anyone taking over her Tower, however briefly.
“Oh, Capella lent a promising trainee: your oldest nephew, I believe, Afra; your sister Goswina’s son.”
“Veswind?” Afra was mildly surprised. “Yes, I suppose he is old enough for responsibility. Gossie would be pleased. I wonder she never mentioned it.”
“They wouldn’t, would they?” Isthia said in a mildly barbed voice.
“No, come to think of it,” Afra replied, and broke off a piece of bread to soak up the soup juices at the bottom of his bowl.
“How soon?” Damia asked Isthia.
“How soon what?”
“How soon can I go back to work?”
Eyebrows raised quizzically, Isthia favored her granddaughter with a very long and piercing look, then sent a mental probe that made Damia gasp with pain.
“When you no longer have that sort of reaction, my dear. I repeat, since you have a hard time absorbing the information, you’ll both recover, and with no reduction in potential. But it will take time, peace, quiet, and no messing about.” Isthia waggled a finger first at her granddaughter. “Have I made myself plain?”
Damia swallowed, her head throbbing. “Completely.”
Immediately she felt a kinder touch and the throbbing was reduced to a minor ache.
“Have I made myself plain to you, too, Afra?” Isthia now turned on Afra, who had gone slightly paler. “Yes, I see I have. Now, will you both stop worrying about the galaxy and eat my nourishing soup? You need to reintroduce your abused stomachs to real food instead of nutrient sprays. I’ve prepared a diet sheet which,” and again she pinned them with her forceful stare, “you will both follow assiduously.” When they nodded meekly, she went on. “I’ll leave tomorrow since a third party is unnecessary—or should be. You certainly are adult enough, Afra, as well as old enough to admit, and yield, to your current physical and mental disabilities.” She gave a sniff. “And to boring each other in close proximity. Nothing like that to demonstrate compatibility.”
“Grandmother!” Damia cried in protest, for she knew that Afra and she were already bonded.
“Damia, stop doodling and start eating. You’ll have more soup, Afra,” she said in one of her quick shifts of mood. “When you’ve finished, I suggest that a gentle walk about the cabin will be about all the physical activity you’ll be able for today. THEN,” and she shook a stern finger at each, “you will rest in the porch hammocks so I’m sure that you are resting.”
“No quarrel there,” Afra said with a droll grin of apology to Damia.
“Hear me, Damia? Give him a chance to regain his strength!”
“Grandmother!”
“Don’t grandmother me, young woman. Learn the joys of anticipation!”
A slight shake of Afra’s head cooled Damia’s heated response. And the warm look in his yellowy eyes promised her that he’d make it all up to her later.
* * *
“It is peaceful here,” Afra said as he and Damia obediently took their stroll. He had linked his warm, long fingers in hers and such tactile contact was unusually reassuring, and curiously satisfying. Almost as good as the now forbidden mental link would be. Especially since the touch-sense of Afra had taken on an added dimension—no longer merely cool-green-comfortable-secure: a vibrancy threaded through the cool-green, and “comfortable” had definitely lazy-sensual elements, while “secure” had intensified into a deeply rooted foundation that could never be attacked. Occasionally Afra’s long thigh brushed against her leg, and their bodies swayed together, to touch at the hip, while her shoulder often encountered his arm.
Damia took in little of their surroundings during that slow saunter: she just reveled in the purely physical contact with a subtly altered Afra. She still couldn’t believe her stupidity. But then, Afra’d always been part of her life: how could she have known he’d assume such a vital role in the rest of her life? She refused to consider problems. Nothing must mar this tranquil moment.
They rounded the corner of the cabin and made for the short flight of stairs to the veranda where two hammocks swung idly in the afternoon breeze. The few stairs put an unexpected strain on her thighs. She thought of the big daddies she had once so effortlessly transported. Well, she’d do them again! She was even panting a bit when they reached the porch. So was Afra, so she didn’t feel quite so decrepit. But this was a splendid spot for napping, shaded as it was from the direct rays of the sun.
Afra held the cords of one hammock while she eased herself into it. Then he bent and, at the last moment, altered his target and kissed the side of her neck.
“Your mouth, love, is far too inviting,” he said with a low laugh, and set her hammock to rocking.
“Why are the swings set so far apart? I want to keep in touch,” she complained, extending her arm as far as it would go toward him. He laughed as he settled himself and, with one quick push, set his hammock into a gentle swing.
“We’re to rest, remember, love? And since I want nothing more than to be rested . . .” and he laughed softly, suggestively, “I’ll obey.”
Surprising her, Afra began to hum a melody she faintly recognized. And hearing it, she fell asleep.
Afra almost botched his attempt to invoke that old preconditioning: in the first place, he couldn’t sing and laugh at the same time and then, when Damia’s breathing obediently slowed to a sleep rhythm, he was both surprised and gratified that that old trigger still worked.
He let the lullaby die away, watching Damia’s face, which still showed the marks of her ordeal and grief. He hadn’t liked to see her so painfully thin, either, but Isthia’s threatened diet ought to repair that damage. He wished he could restore her as easily as he had put her to sleep. He sighed, and clasped his hands behind his head, shifting his gaze to the cabin’s incredibly serene setting. Gradually he became aware of discrete sounds: Isthia moving about inside; insect and bird song drifting from the trees; the soughing of the breeze. He was also calm within himself for the first time in years: perhaps, he amended, in his adult life. Certainly since Damia’s ripening sexuality had stunned him—what was it, only seven years ago?
Last night had been completely unexpected: a boon he could never have anticipated—a boon which might yet cause him more anguish than he had already endured. And yet, this time Afra Lyon had no intention of standing patiently by and permitting Damia’s incredible gift of love to be wrenched from his grasp.
Hadn’t she come to him of her own volition? Seen him with eyes no longer clouded by old perceptions and the anathema of “familiarity”? And her dear nonsense about sharing her mental strength with him? Well, he’d just see if that was ever needed! How devoutly he hoped that Isthia’s prognosis was correct! Keeping up with Damia would require Afra Lyon in top form.
On the other hand, Damia might have turned to him as an anodyne to the devastating experience of misjudging Sodan, and Larak’s loss. They had been so close, those two. Had she turned to her oldest and most trusted friend only for solace? No, Afra told himself, he had not misjudged the look on Damia’s face, the amazement in her eyes as she had really looked at him, Afra Lyon; the way her hands had caressed him were revelations for them both. She had undergone a shift, a realignment of senses, a translation of p
reconceptions that had been far-reaching. That he had shifted from old family friend to potential lover years before was immaterial: in her eyes, she herself had made the final adjustment to accepting the steadfast and silent love he had for her.
Afra smiled wryly. He had stunned Damia with his mention of twenty-eight Towered years. But his love had to face the fact that he was twenty-four years her senior. Rowan would mention it and possibly Jeff. He did wonder how they were going to receive the news. He could hear the Rowan roaring—she’d have to break in a new assistant—unless she could persuade Gollee to stay. Or install Veswind? Would she be willing for another from the Lyon line?
Afra smiled again as he remembered how often Jeff had teased him about starting his own family. Jeff had never had Damia in mind for Afra’s mate, but would he really object? Damia was younger by over two decades, but how much could that matter?
Especially now that Damia had gone through such a tempering and maturing crisis. Afra saw it in the lingering sadness in her eyes, heard it in her subtly altered voice, felt it in her abandoned response to their impassioned consummation. He wished she had not been subjected to such a harsh, unforgiving, sacrificial rite of passage. He could have wished it had been easier on her—but surely both Rowan and Jeff would recognize her new maturity. Afra shifted restlessly, his thoughts turning to the unexpected victim. Dear, dear Larak! That vibrant, amiable, loving boy, gone in a flash of alien anger. Afra forced himself to face that hideous moment, if only to defuse the emotional burden, but his mind refused to focus. In fact, it hurt . . .
Afra, came Isthia’s admonition, don’t think about that yet. You can’t alter what has happened.
He didn’t try to reach her telepathically, just let his reply sit in his public mind. I must, however, confront what did happen and sort it out for peace of mind.
Not now, not today or for several weeks to come, Isthia replied, and what she did next, Afra never knew but sleep overcame him. To achieve the restoration of her patients, Isthia wouldn’t cavil at planting a few irresistible suggestions of her own.
Damia Page 30
