His hands shifted again, building a solidly balanced, stately top-line, the undermelody as uncompromising as stone, except—did Miri detect the faintest hint of laughter? Of—informality? If it existed, it was a very ghost. Val Con's fingers had stopped, and the last note vibrated into stillness before she shook her head.
"Got me there. Don't think I know him."
"Her," he corrected. "My sister Nova."
"Pleasure, I'm sure," Miri said with a certain lack of enthusiasm. "Hope I never do anything to make her mad."
He laughed softly and began another line, this one gentle, relaxed, almost absurdly good-natured—until one heard the steel beneath the surface, sharp as any blade. "Shan," he murmured, then moved his hands once more.
The new tune was like a glitter of dark snowflakes seen briefly in the glare of a lightning bolt, like kittens giving each other chase upon waking. "Anthora," he said.
He sat back and inclined his head slightly. "Clan Korval," he told her. He reached to cover the keyboard.
Miri's hand on his sleeve stopped him. "Somebody missing, ain't there?"
He lifted an eyebrow.
"Val Con?" Miri asked. "Seems to me I heard he was Second Speaker."
"Ah, well," he said. "Val Con." His fingers dropped carelessly to the keys, playing a quick ripple of sound in the midrange that was merely an echo of his murmuring voice; then his hands lifted and brought the cover gently down into place.
"Oh," Miri said.
He turned to look at her and noticing the tension in the small muscles around her eyes. "Cha'trez? What is wrong?"
She frowned and moved her shoulders slightly, as if to shrug the problem away. "I—it's stupid, I guess. Just seems like you try to hide yourself from me, or something."
"Do I?" He turned on the bench to face her fully. "I am your friend. And your partner. And your lifemate. Do I not please you, Miri?"
"Please?" She looked surprised, then shifted sharply to sit astride the bench and looked him fully in the face. Her own was wide open, so that he knew the answer before she spoke it.
"I love you so much it hurts. So much I try not to think about it, 'cause I get scared." She clamped her jaw.
He extended a hand and stroked her cheek. "Such a large present, cha'trez, for someone you do not know." He tipped his head. "And you knew me well enough, did you not, to intercede with Zhena Trelu so I might have use of this piano?"
"How'd you know that?" She was regarding him with some suspicion. He stroked her cheek again, moving his fingers to trace the curve of her brows.
"Zhena Trelu told me; so I would know for certain how well I was loved." He ran his fingers down the line of her jaw. "You are so beautiful . . ." There was an ache of wonder in his voice.
She reached up to brush the hair from his eyes. "Val Con?" There was a pause while she searched his face and eyes; he felt as if she were searching his soul and held his breath, afraid. "You love me," she said finally and very softly, as if the discovery were a new one.
"Miri," he said suddenly, shifting into the most intimate of modes, nearly singing the Low Liaden words, "you are my wisdom and my laughter, the song of my heart, my home. Best-loved friend; wife and lover . . ."
She did not understand; the words meant nothing to her, though he saw her following the song of his voice. Almost sharply, he brought both hands up and ran his fingers into her hair, holding her so her eyes had to look into his. Consciously keeping his voice pitched for intimate speech, he reached for the hopelessly inadequate Terran words.
"I love you, Miri; you are my joy."
Releasing her, he sat back and was conscious of intense pleasure when she moved her hand to take his.
"Lifemates means what it says?" she asked, smiling at him just a little.
He raised a brow. "What else would it mean?"
"Just checking." She stood, pulling him with her. "Let's go to bed. Betcha it's after midnight . . ."
"Priscilla," Lina inquired with the straightforwardness of friendship, "is this wise?"
The other woman looked up from unbuckling her belt, her slim brows arched in surprise. "It's necessary," she said, and laid the belt smoothly aside.
Lina stifled a sigh. Believing in necessity, Priscilla would pursue her mad course, whether her friend consented to watch or no.
"Perhaps it might wait," she ventured, watching Priscilla slip her trousers off and fold them neatly atop her shirt, "until Shan is on the ship? He only trades until local dusk, Priscilla. Surely time is not of such—"
Lina had suspected all along that this enterprise had none of Shan yos'Galan's smile—which boded not so well for Lina Faaldom, if she had to seek him out to say "Old friend, your heart slipped away while I watched her; and the way of her going is such that a Healer may neither follow nor find . . ."
The bed shifted slightly as Priscilla lay down and smiled up at her friend. "I'm not in any danger, Lina. You'll be with me, after all."
The smaller woman laughed. "Yes, assuredly! The mouse shall guard the lion."
Priscilla nodded, quite serious. "Who better? You will watch closely and not rush into danger, as another lion might; and so keep yourself safe and able to assist." She smiled again, softly. "Wise Lina."
"Pah!" Lina banished flattery with a flick of a tiny hand. "Well, and if you must, you might as well—and quickly."
"Yes. You have the Words I gave you?"
"Of course."
Priscilla!
Lina was to cry, if there came a hint that things were not as they should be.
Priscilla, come home!
Heart-words, Priscilla had named them, saying that she would hear that phrase and return, no matter how far the distance.
The ways of the dramliz are wondrous, indeed, Lina thought, and clutched the heartwords tightly in memory.
Beside her, Priscilla's breathing had slowed and deepened, the pulse in her throat beating with alarming slowness. Healer-sense showed the pattern she recognized as Priscilla Mendoza pulled in upon itself, so dense it seemed that even outer eyes must see it.
And as she watched, that strangely dense pattern began to rise, until inner eyes placed it above the sleeping body; then even farther above, rising toward the cabin's ceiling, trailing behind it in a single thread no thicker than a strand of silk. Rising still, it faded through the ceiling and was lost to all Lina's sight.
The clamor of the galaxy was easier to ignore than it had been the last time. No sooner was the template in place than the aura it represented was found, flaring among the multitudes of lesser lights like a nova amid mere stars.
She approached slowly, mindful of the lesson that haste had taught her, traveling a time that could not be measured over a distance that seemed at once very great and no more than a roll from one side to another to embrace one who lay beside her.
Suddenly she was very close. Cautiously she opened a path from herself to him—and very nearly recoiled.
Temple training saved her from that error; her own necessity drew her close again, to examine what was there.
Protections. The boy she had known had encompassed no such walls and ramparts, though he had been adept enough at shielding himself. But even at that, with him awake, as he was now, and she with the need and the Aspect upon her, there should have been yet the small ways in, where one might enter and leave a seed-thought, to grow to suggestion and then into dream and so be absorbed into consciousness.
Disconcerted, she brought template against pattern, thinking that she had somehow erred in her urgency—but no. There could not be two such, matching, edge on edge, protected or wide open. And witch-sense brought her a bare hint of the passion that had previously overflowed him, burning still, but deep within, a bonfire at the heart of a citadel.
Val Con!
She hurled his name, hoping for a crack in those protections, perhaps even a recognition.
He heard her, of that much was she certain, but the walls stood firm. Almost she turned to leave, defeated—and saw then, with witch-eyes, the bridge.
A sturdy structure, built with more honesty than skill, vanishing into the very heart of the tightly guarded place that Val Con yos'Phelium had inexplicably become and stretching away to—where?
Cautiously she followed the bridge back, marveling at its flexibility and strength, then found the source and marveled anew.
The pattern shone, life-passion licking through the gridwork even though consciousness was at the moment disengaged. Priscilla bent her attention closer and discovered the sleeper's core lightly locked behind doors while the rest remained open to any with eyes to see. She sensed a bit of lambent shine, which might indicate witch-sense; the bridge argued power, even as it showed an architect untrained. Had she been in her body, Priscilla might have smiled. She had found lifemate, and a fitting receptacle for her message.
Taking care not to disturb the other's slumber or cast the slightest quiver onto the bridge, Priscilla placed the thought-seed within the sleeping pattern and withdrew a little way to watch. Only when she was certain that neither the sleeping nor the wakeful had been disturbed by her action did she loose her hold upon the place and follow her mooring line home.
Val Con slipped out of bed and silently pulled on his clothes. He stood over Miri for a time, studying her face in the crisp moonlight, unaccountably delighted that the small, satisfied smile still lingered on her mouth. Gently he tucked the covers around her, fingertips barely brushing the tumble of copper silk, then turned and went like moonshadow across the room and out into the hall.
He paused briefly in the lower hall, decided against the piano, and continued on to the kitchen where Borril moaned but did not wake as the man took his jacket from its peg.
Just beyond the scuppin house he paused again, breath frosting on the air. Energy tingled through him, head-top to toe-tips: the excitement of making music coupled with the exuberance of making love, of being loved. He stretched high on his toes, arms flung out toward the meager stars. Tonight, tonight he could fly.
Or nearly so. On the verge of soaring, he brought his arms down and stood looking quietly at the sky, thinking of a ship.
Of his own will and heart, he had brought forbidden technology to an Interdicted World and left it, barely concealed, no more than three miles from habitation. Though it was coil-dead, ransacked—even the distress beacon dead—he should have sent it into orbit and oblivion the moment they had been safe on-world, rather than trying to reconcile Scout-conscience with bone-deep need.
He had no means to repair the ship, no excuse for the madness of keeping it by. It was only that it went hard against the heart to lose such a resource, even though reasoned thought showed it to be no use to him. From the very first—from Cantra forward—Korval had kept the ships that came to it. Thirty-one generations of yos'Pheliums had led Korval, gathering ships as they could, obeying Cantra's law. And to Val Con, of the Line Direct, seventh to bear the name—to Val Con yos'Phelium fell the task of sending a ship to certain death and acknowledging to his heart that he and his lifemate were stranded on a forbidden world, Clan-reft, and likely to eventually die here.
Homesickness swept through him, sudden and shocking: He recalled the library at Jelaza Kazone, the long row of identically bound Diaries. He remembered even more vividly Uncle Er Thom's office at Trealla Fantrol, his uncle seated at the desk, head bent over some work, fair hair gleaming in the scented firelight; remembered his own rooms, gray Merlin lounging on the window seat, blinking yellow eyes against the midmorning sun; Shan laughing and talking; Nova so solemn; Anthora; Padi; Pat Rin . . .
Out of the near-dawn he heard a sound, as if someone inexpressibly far away had cried his name. He spun, every sense straining; heard the echo die and nothing more.
After a time, he turned back toward the house, carrying home-memories like a dull ache behind his heart.
Miri woke as he opened the door; she grinned up at him and stretched with very evident enjoyment. "Morning."
"Good morning, cha'trez." He sat carefully on the edge of the bed and held out a mug. "Would you like some tea?"
"Why not?" She wriggled into a sitting position against the pillows and took the mug, the coverlet falling away from one slight breast. "Umm—nice," she said, sipping. "And thanks."
"You're welcome."
"Yeah. You're up early."
"A touch of performance exhilaration." He smiled. "Even with the exercise that followed I found I needed no more than a nap."
She laughed, shaking her head and hiding the breast behind a curtain of hair. "And here I thought I wore you out!" Her expression changed abruptly and she sipped her tea. "Had a dream, boss."
"So?" he murmured, watching her face closely from beneath long lashes. "Tell me."
"Funniest thing about it," she said slowly, "is that it was so real, like I knew the people. Like they were—family."
"Dreams are very odd," he offered when a moment had passed and she had not spoken further. "Perhaps these are people you have seen somewhere before, even in passing."
"Naw," she said hesitantly. Then, with complete surety, she repeated, "No. I'd remember a pair like this one, no matter how short a sight I'd had." She closed her eyes, brows drawn in concentration. "They were in a—it looked like a ship's bridge, but
big
—and they were standing together, shoulder to shoulder. She's a little taller than he is—black hair, all curly, black eyes, and pale—beautiful, boss; that's the only word for her. And him—white hair, but not old; light eyes; brown skin; big hands—holding a wineglass; wearing a purple ring . . .They said—" Her brows twitched, and he watched her breathlessly.
"Somebody
said, "We're looking for you. Help us." She sighed. "So damn
real."
"Priscilla," he breathed.
She opened her eyes. "Huh?"
"The people you described," he managed, fighting against hope and terror. "The white-haired man is my brother Shan; the woman is Priscilla Mendoza, who is—ah, she is first mate, say—on
Dutiful Passage,
which my brother captains."