“My gratitude, Meilyn. Truly. This… it gives me the world.”
He favored her with a tight smile. “Your bond-partner is in the refectory.”
She slipped off the bed and bowed to the man, then ran for her quarters to freshen up. When she skidded through the refectory door, the Paran still occupied his heavy chair at the head of the high table, his attention fixed on a tablet before him. Azana sat… in Vondra’s chair… her hand dancing over the object’s surface. The Paran looked up, and his face lit.
“Beloved,” he said, as she took her seat. “How do you feel? You still slept when I visited the apothecaries’ quarters earlier.”
“I feel good.” Laura surveyed the Paranians ranged across the room, in twos and threes. “Happy. Now I can understand and… speak, and… life here will be more… more agreeable.”
Azana’s presence took on a pleased glow. “Our world has much to offer.”
“What…” Laura paused to raise a cup of water to her lips while she marshaled her thoughts. “What… you are doing?”
“Your human physics and our Tolari version differ,” Azana replied. “I am engaged in a project to better understand and relate them.”
“The Sural requested Parania’s cooperation,” the Paran added, “and I assigned several of my mathematicians to the task. Azana has spent her morning meal attempting to give me an outline of the progress so far.”
“For one without the necessary background, your bond-partner understands more than I expected.”
The Paran snorted. “Rulers are taught to focus on what they can comprehend—which is little enough, on this topic. Nevertheless, continue.”
Laura grinned and busied herself with her stomach’s demands while Azana spoke of
vectors
—whatever those were—and
particle perspective
—whatever that was—and abstract concepts Laura couldn’t begin to identify. She stared out the refectory windows at the trees in the garden. The Paranian word for
tree
floated through her mind. But what kind? It couldn’t be cora—the Sural had once commented in her hearing that cora only grew in cool climates. She’d have to learn the old-fashioned way what
kind
of trees grew here.
“Are you bored, beloved?” the Paran asked.
She pulled her attention away from the window and glanced at the Paran. His lips tilted in a crooked grin. “Oh no,” she replied. “I am too busy… happy… that I can understand.”
“Too busy being happy that you can understand?” Azana suggested.
“Yes, exactly. This is wonderful, after the struggle to learn. But some things—” Laura pointed out the window “—I know that is a
tree
, but what kind?”
The Paran patted her wrist. “Perhaps Azana will educate you. I must begin the day’s duties.” He stood.
Laura shifted into English. “Another busy one?” She caught his hand, and he brushed his lips across her fingers.
“Indeed.”
“I’ll find things to do, then.”
Azana pocketed the tablet they had been using. “If you wish, I will take you to a park in the city, and introduce you to trees common to this part of the world.”
“An excellent idea,” the Paran said over his shoulder, as he headed toward the hall.
Laura watched him disappear through the doorway and sighed.
“Artist?” Azana prompted.
“What?” Laura turned back to the table. “Oh yes, let’s.”
* * *
She returned from the city sometime after the midday meal, stuffed with new words and local food, to find the Paran outdoors, in a state of pleasant exuberance.
“The city representatives canceled their meeting with me,” he said when she came upon him on the long, straight path that ran the length of the garden, nocking an arrow with green cloth fletching on a bow almost as long as he was tall.
It was a thing of beauty, that bow, a graceful curve of greenish wood covered with delicate, burned-in patterns. He aimed it at a post, thick as a man’s arm and tall as Laura’s shoulder, set before a row of low bushes perhaps twenty meters away, and let the arrow fly. A bush shuddered.
“A miss,” said a nearby guard.
The Paran’s lips thinned. He drew another arrow and nocked it.
Laura squinted at the target, a wooden cube the size of a man’s fist, set atop the post. “How are you supposed to hit that thing?” she asked.
“With great skill.” Another arrow flew. It hit the post and splintered, the force of its impact knocking the cube from its perch.
Laura blew a stray hair off her face. “Almost.”
The Paran gave her a sidelong glance and said nothing, while a guard sprinted off to replace the target. Offering a sheepish grin, she slunk away and went back into the keep before she could irritate him further.
Once inside, she headed for the library.
The soft scuffing of her slippers against the floor matting echoed off the walls. She wandered over to her easel, and the emptiness of the room gripped her heart and pulled. The old stone sculptor’s rudely-sketched face gazed out at her.
“Where are you now?” she whispered.
From out of nowhere, masculine satisfaction lifted her mood, and she wandered over to a window that overlooked the garden. The Paran stood near the post, holding the cube with an arrow sticking into it, talking to a guard. He wrenched the arrow out and stuck his small finger in the hole.
Laura grinned to herself. Truth to tell, it had been a relief to find him doing something other than work. She placed a flat palm against the window and sent a pulse of affection along their pair-bond. His head swiveled toward her, half a smile on his face.
“It gets better,” she murmured. “It takes time, and we never stop missing them, but it does get better.”
* * *
The Monral exited the transport pod in his city’s transit hub, camouflaged guards fanning out around him. He ignored them, along with the people who turned to bow and back out of the way, and strode straight through the crowd. Confusion flared behind him. He ignored that, as well.
The music hall sat on the north side of the large square it formed with the arts center, the science towers, and the scholars’ archives. The ramp from the underground tunnels opened at one corner, next to the archival libraries. The Monral emerged into the sunlight and headed across the plaza, thinking through what he knew of Sharana’s taste in music.
The leader of Monralar’s musician caste met him at the door with a deep bow. Wearing a knee-length, deep mauve robe, she projected the serene confidence of an accomplished performer. She folded her hands and flashed an expectant smile.
“Speak,” he said.
“You honor us, high one.” Her voice was soft and melodious.
“Tell me who is immediately available to perform at the stronghold.”
The woman’s eyebrows rose. “I must consult my records. Will you come with me?”
He nodded and followed her into a study that looked as if it doubled as a practice room. A large harp occupied one corner, and an explosion of paper and tuning tools covered the desk. As he took a seat in one of the two chairs facing it, the caste leader shoved piles of music-covered sheets aside to access her console.
After a moment, she looked up. “High one, you need not have come here. I am happy to appear at your summons.”
“I did not wish my beloved to know of this.” …And both he and Sharana needed the slight respite the distance from each other provided.
“Ah, I—”
“Who is available of her favorites?”
The woman focused her attention on her console. “Scholar Sharana has often requested the company of Dazyn and Sylindra,” she murmured. “They are available for the next hand of days, if they are willing.”
“Convince them to agree.”
Wide eyes darted to his. She licked her lips. “High one—”
“My bond-partner is… distressed,” he said, cutting off the coming objection. “I wish to coax her into a more positive mood with music she cannot resist.”
The musician nodded slowly. “I will speak with them. They will perhaps give a favorable response to such an argument.”
“See that they do.”
The Monral sent Sharana’s apothecary to notify her of the concert. This, it seemed, did not please his beloved. He winced at the mix of negative emotion coming from her—loneliness, anger, feelings of betrayal—and shook his head. Her turmoil had disrupted his work through the morning and into the afternoon, and this particular upsurge of emotional pain had interrupted his—fourth? fifth?—reading of the report on his tablet. He tossed the thing across his desk, quelling the exasperation simmering in his belly, and reached through their bond with affection and caring.
She pushed him away.
His eyes stung. This had to stop.
A soft exhale issued from a male throat. The Monral looked up and frowned. The seneschal stood before his desk, stiff with disapproval. The difficulty with Sharana had so diverted his attention he could not remember when the man entered the room.
“Speak,” he said.
“The musicians wish to relocate their concert to the garden.”
He pinched the bridge of his nose, then rubbed his eyebrows. “Why the garden?”
“The moon enters Tolar’s shadow this evening. They say they wish to use the event to enhance their performance.”
The Monral pressed his lips together. This morning, it had been the
shape
of the seating in the audience room that displeased them. They had insisted the servants rearrange the floor matting. Then, at the midday meal, they had expressed dissatisfaction with the banners on the walls, noting that such a large number of the heavy standards would affect the room’s sound qualities in a negative way, and could they not be relocated elsewhere? Now, after the seneschal had directed the servants to take down most of the banners and rearranged the seating once more, they decided to abandon the audience room altogether. The musicians, it seemed, wanted to make known their displeasure at his coercion.
If only the planetary weather control could call up rain on short notice. He ground his teeth.
“Tell the honored musicians,” he said, clipping his words, “they will perform in the audience room, which is already prepared and which has proven satisfactory to them in the past. They will not disturb you, or the servants, or my work with any more demands. If they do, they will never perform in Monralar again.”
The seneschal bowed and left. The Monral stared at a spot on the desk, Sharana’s misery gripping his heart. Some of his people rejected pair-bonding, preferring instead to take a long-term or even life-long lover. The reasoning for this mentioned only the dangers of pair-bonding—should one of a bonded pair die, the other usually did as well. He had scoffed at those considerations. No one spoke of the difficulties created by a bond-partner’s rejection.
He might have listened if they had.
Sharana’s mood changed to emptiness, and he relaxed into his chair. As much as he wished she could feel something positive in anticipation of music she loved, the numbness provided a welcome change. He could get some work done.
It seemed she would attend the concert, and he would see her beloved face. His spirits lifting, he turned to the next task on his agenda.
* * *
Laura concentrated on maintaining her barriers and not laughing. If she had to describe Azana’s daughter in one word, that word would be
brilliant
. Allowed another word, she would choose
disaster.
The gawky six-year-old—thirteen in Earth years—even wore her robe at odd angles. She rushed to and fro between the two astronomical viewers she had set up on the stronghold roof, the smaller a tube about as wide as a man’s thigh and the other a blocky octagonal cylinder about half again as long. She tripped and, by some miracle, managed neither to fall nor to knock over either delicate instrument.
Azana breathed an audible sigh of relief. “Denara, slow your pace.”
“But Mother—”
“Denara.”
Laura stifled a laugh. For the moment, Azana kept her empathic fingers out of Denara, allowing her to control herself. The girl took a deep breath.
“Mother, the moon’s traverse begins soon. I must hurry.”
“You must take care. Damaged instruments will not serve you.”
Denara’s head and shoulders slumped. “Yes, Mother,” she said, glancing at Azana from under her eyebrows. She muttered something Laura couldn’t hear.
“Did you say something, daughter?”
“Only flutter chatter.”
“You are quite sure you do not wish my assistance?”
“I am sure, Mother.”
Azana sighed and shook her head, but Denara continued setting up with less rush and more attention. Azana turned toward Laura.
“And you had two daughters?” she asked. “How did you not go mad?”
Laura snorted. “I—” She interrupted herself. “The Paran is coming up the stairs.”
Denara emitted a squeak and dropped a small metal fitting. Azana whirled, this time reaching into her daughter to help her control her nervousness.
The Paran’s head appeared at the corner of the roof. His eyes flicked from one occupant to another, taking in their moods, then said, “In truth, I have never yet banished a child.” He offered the girl a friendly smile as he emerged fully from the stairwell, carrying a folded blanket over one arm. A servant followed, bearing a steaming carafe of fragrant tea on a tray with mugs.
“Ooh!” Laura chirped, and hurried over to avail herself of the Paran’s thoughtfulness.
Denara, all spiky anxiety now, bowed to the Paran. “High one,” she said, somehow managing to keep her voice clear. Laura shot a glance at Azana, who had a tight empathic rein on Denara. “You honor us.”
He smiled again. “Tell me your purpose tonight.” He chose a spot near the low retaining wall around the roof’s edge and snapped the blanket out flat. It covered enough of the roof’s pale stone to seat all of them.
“My tutors require me to record the moon’s traverse through Tolar’s shadow this night,” Denara said. “Tomorrow in the morning I must narrate the recording for them, naming each phase of the event and explaining the cyclic variations in refractive density.”
The Paran dropped down onto one end of the blanket, sitting with his arms draped about his knees. Laura snuggled against him, sipping her tea. Azana took a seat on the other end with two mugs of the stuff, one lifted to her lips.