Exile to the Stars (The Alarai Chronicles) (37 page)

In
Jeff’s experience, Carl had never committed to anything other than his work and
fencing. Of course, neither had he. There had been nothing on Earth worth
committing to.

“You’ve
just said it all, man. A chance to really make a difference. I can’t tell you
how good it will be to have you at my back in Rugen when I head north. We got
us a real team going here.”

“Damn
right, brother.”

Deep
in the Tounae’s hold, Rogelf watched Zimma closely. Since leaving Khorgan, in
fact since her return from Tradertown, she had been so quiet that he had become
concerned. Observing her potter about in a distracted fashion, Rogelf thought
he had a good idea what was going on in Zimma’s mind. In reality, he understood
only a fraction of her turmoil.

The
shock of seeing Jeff lying unconscious in a pool of blood had been so
devastating that Zimma had yet to recover. She had seen seriously wounded men
before—that wasn’t the issue. It was the role she had played in putting him
there.

First
she had insisted on joining the expedition in spite of the risks her presence
would pose, then repeatedly stood in opposition to every suggestion that would
have reduced those risks. As a result, a Baktar crewman had died and Jeffrey
had come so close she still found it hard to believe he had survived. Watching
his blood pour onto the sand as she desperately tried to staunch the flow, she
knew with clairvoyant certainty that if he died her own life was forfeit.

She
had endlessly reviewed her life prior to that one terrifying event, and each
time cringed away with self-loathing. The wild, drunken parties. Smoking kalheesh
until she didn’t remember or care which man she had slept with, or how many.
But that was only part of the shame. It was the look of stark fear on her
father’s face each time she stumbled home, and that of contempt on her
brother’s, that had truly haunted every waking hour and much of her dreaming
since escaping Tradertown.

When
there were no more tears to cry, the exquisite pain deep in her soul remained.
Now, far out on Lake Ligura, the worst of that agony had relented and she was
free to focus on an issue that had been endlessly running around in the back of
her mind.

Leaning
against a stack of trade goods, Zimma called up an image of Jeff when they had
first spoken on board the Baktar. A question took shape: what would life be
worth without him?

Jolted
by the question and not ready to deal with it, she picked up a bale of clothing
that had come adrift and found a secure niche for it. Dusting off her hands,
Zimma’s cheeks grew hot when she remembered the look on Jeff’s face when her
blouse had been torn off. And the next morning when he walked away in those
leather pants.... Zimma felt something stir that had nothing to do with guilt.

Snatching
at a block of wood left sitting on a bale, Zimma heaved it at the dim shape of
a spubak scuttling across the aisle. The squeak and scrabbling of claws that
followed was deeply satisfying. She sat down on a crate of spices and tried to
imagine what it would be like to get up each morning and not feel a rush of
excitement at the prospect of seeing Jeff again. To get up each morning and
know she would never see him again.

Zimma
felt such a stab of fear that she jumped to her feet and couldn’t stop a little
cry. Then, quite unaccountably, her mind abruptly changed course. For the first
time in her life she thought about babies; what it would be like to carry and
give birth to a child.

Graphic
images of women she had seen in various stages of pregnancy flashed through
Zimma’s mind. Always before she had thought them ugly and swollen. Now she
recalled the radiance that virtually glowed from their skin, and a special kind
of contented wisdom in their eyes that had made her feel resentful.

Zimma
envisioned herself far along in pregnancy and thought how envious other women
would be. Yes, they would be! Jeffrey would put a baby in me such as this world
has never imagined!

Breathing
hard, eyes flashing, Zimma felt such a rush that she put a hand out to steady
herself. With that thought, a line of reasoning closed to form a circle and she
knew without doubt what she wanted, and whom she wanted to spend her life with.

The
insight was so strong that it staggered her, and was immediately followed by a
burst of fear that made the first one seem like nothing. What if he doesn’t
want me? Why should he? Why would any man want a woman who has treated him so
badly? He is going to leave me. I know he is. I’ll never see him again.
Standing in the dark aisle, Zimma burst into tears.

Rogelf
hurried up the aisle and pulled her into his arms. “What is it? Please, little
one, you must tell me.”

“It
is Jeffrey, Father. I am going to lose him. He hates me.”

Belstan
trotted from the other direction in time to overhear. He was not burdened with
the restraints of fatherhood, yet accorded the affection of a favored uncle.

“Look
at me, Zimma.”

She
released Rogelf and turned to face him with downcast eyes. He lifted her chin.
“There is no hate in Jeffrey. You are attempting to hate yourself. Since
returning from Tradertown, and for the first time in years, I am proud of you.
Now you have come into your own and will either seek what you would have or
cast opportunity to the wind, perhaps forever. It is life, Zimma. I know
Jeffrey is very fond of you. It is in your hands to discover if there is more.”

The
uncompromising, even stern, tone of Belstan’s voice settled Zimma down at once.
She did not need to reflect on his words to understand that they conveyed the
stark truth. Choking back a sob, she drew herself up.

“I
will have him.”

“Then
it is time to be done with talking and tears. Go. Discover your destiny.”

Zimma
kissed Rogelf, hugged Belstan, and fled down the aisle. She missed the corner,
slid into some bales, ricocheted back and was gone. Looking at each other, the
men let their breaths out together. Belstan waved for Rogelf to follow him.

“I
believe this moment calls for a pot of ale.”

“Oh,
where is he?” Zimma had searched for Jeff from the crew’s quarters near the bow
to the captain’s cabin in the stern.

Heart
beating a rapid tattoo, Zimma ran up the main companionway ladder, skidded to a
halt on deck and looked around. Even though land was out of sight, she knew a
moment of panic. He is gone! At that moment she spied Jeff leaning on the
weather rail staring across the water, tousled hair blowing in the fresh
breeze.

“Thank
the gods.”

Wishing
she didn’t smell of sweat and look like a fishmonger, Zimma straightened her
clothing. She did a quick mental inventory of her clothing and jewelry. Perhaps
some perfume.... Zimma shook her head savagely, and thought, No! I have behaved
like a whore, but that is done with forever. If he does not want me as I am, or
because of what I have been, then it was not meant to be. Gathering resolve for
what she must do, Zimma walked over and leaned on the rail next to Jeff.

Startled
out of worried reflection, Jeff smiled at Zimma and put a companionable arm
around her shoulders. At his touch Zimma knew it was right, had been right for
many weeks. She rested a hand on his arm and moved closer so their hips were
touching. There was no need for words. The body contact and shared presence was
worth more than a volume. Yet there was unfinished business. After a period she
disengaged Jeff’s arm and turned him from the rail.

“I
have yet to thank you for saving my life and freedom, Jeffrey. Still I awake of
a night in the grip of deep terror from those hours while a captive. I do not
believe my spirit would have long survived, had you not come for me.” Captured
by those memories again, tears gathered in her eyes. “But you did, and nearly
died as a result.” Zimma paused and looked down. When she looked up her face
was resolute. “And now there must be a reckoning. These past weeks have
afforded barely sufficient time to consider my life in all its shallow and
hateful manifestations. I have apologized to my father, yet only time will
permit me to compensate him for all he has endured in the name of love.”
 

“Zimma,
please. You don’t have to do this.”

“Yes!
Yes I do! I must rid my soul of this burden so that love and charity may find a
home.” Zimma gripped Jeff’s arms so hard it was painful. “And you. You who I
called oaf and buffoon, whose very father I termed a churl, rescued my spirit
from such degradation as cannot be imagined.” Tears streamed down Zimma’s
cheeks but she would not look away. “Please, will you forgive me?”

Jeff
had never encountered such a thing in his twenty-eight years. Zimma had not
only apologized, but also given her soul into his hands. Frozen by the moment
and lack of even a vague precedent, his tongue was locked in place. Zimma
prepared herself as the silence dragged on. It had been too much to hope for.

“I...I
find myself consumed by such feelings that they threaten to tear me asunder.
God, Zimma. You are...I mean.... Yes, with all my heart. I forgive you. But,
you see, I think I.... No! I don’t think, I know that I…know that I love you.”

Zimma
watched emotions chase each other across Jeff’s face, read the intent of his
fractured syntax; understood the meaning. His final words sent her spirit
soaring into the heavens.

“Oh,
my love.”

They
came together in one step, bodies molding to one another in a way that knew no
hard edges. Their lips met in the first kiss. Long-frustrated emotion found the
bridge and rushed between two hearts. It was not a crushing embrace, rather one
of true passion that had found release.

When
they separated, Zimma looked into his eyes as if seeing him for the first time.
She placed a finger on his lips, perhaps to document what had passed between
them. Kissing her finger, Jeff wrapped Zimma in his arms. Words had no place in
what they were feeling, and they swayed back and forth to the lift and surge of
the ship.

They
spent the rest of the day holding hands and creating dreams. Jeff’s mind had
only been waiting for the opportunity to acknowledge what his heart had been
promoting for a long time—he loved Zimma without exclusion or doubt. By evening
he wasn’t sure he would be able to leave her when they arrived at Astholf.

“Zimma,
I find my feelings so deeply engaged that I stand in awe. Somehow the word love
is not strong enough, complete enough. Yet everything has occurred so quickly,
been so life and death centered. How many days do we have to really acquaint
ourselves with one another before we must separate?”

“We
have this time.”

Zimma
kissed him slowly and thoroughly, exploring every contour of his lips. “You are
mine, Jeffrey. It is so wonderful to say that.” She lay her check on his chest.
“Yet it is a time of war. I understand that you must leave me for the while,
but let us not tarnish the moment with misgivings or doubt. We must grasp that
which is possible, not squander joy in anticipation of loss.”

Later,
as they watched the sun slip below the horizon and turn the water to gold, they
shared another kiss; let themselves be consumed by the kiss and each other.

That
evening the captain announced they would arrive at Astholf the following
afternoon if the breeze held. Jeff and Carl were worried about Belstan. One day
to port and still no word. It was a great relief when he approached them with a
determined stride.

“You
have caused me great distress, young man. Never has my desire to turn a few
linta waged such a savage war with my determination to stay alive. It is late,
and such serious matters as trade and profit are better discussed at an earlier
hour. Rogelf and I will confer with you and Carl tomorrow morning to share our
minds on this matter.”

True
to his word, it was only mid-morning when they were summoned from the main
hatchway by an imperious crooking of Belstan’s finger. The three of them, Jeff,
Zimma and Carl, had been having a wonderful gabfest. Zimma shooed them away.

“May
the gods preserve you!” She said it with a laugh, but the men were not
reassured.

They
met in the captain’s cabin. Belstan’s expression was intense, and his eyes
bored into Jeff’s.

“Rogelf
and I have discussed at great length the part we might play in the supply
effort for Rugen. What you have suggested is, to our minds, impossible.”

Jeff
felt the world spin and was grateful he was sitting down. As Belstan obviously
had more to say, he fought back the strong urge to immediately object. Belstan
rolled out the inevitable map and waved them over to look on.

“Astholf
by itself is nothing. Its strength lies first in its association with Khorgan,
and second, with Rugen. It is naught but a pathway for raw material flowing
south, and for finished objects flowing north. The great majority of this by
way of Lake Ligura. Astholf would have been, has been, the main link in trade
with Rugen.