Ahead of her the tunnel broadened onto wide, curving stairs. She ascended, the borrowed Monralar brocade she wore stiff and awkward, inhibiting her movement. She welcomed its warmth in the bitter cold and struggled upward. The end of her ordeal drew near.
At the top, the stairs gave way to a grand cavern, its walls coated with glimmering frost. In the cavern’s center lay a dais carved from the ice, and on the edge of the dais sat the tall, fair-skinned and yellow-haired Jorann, her blue eyes fixed on Sharana. A simple white, sleeveless robe graced her form. Her face showed no emotion.
“Come, child,” she said. “Sit.”
Sharana crossed the distance to the cavern’s center and sank onto the thick white blankets spread at the foot of the dais, settling onto her heels. She folded her hands in her lap, eyes lowered.
“You are quite badly injured, child.” The Jorann extended a hand to tilt her chin up with warm fingers. “Look at me.”
Sharana forced herself to meet the eyes of her own distant ancestor. “Highest,” she whispered.
“My grandson sent a request on your behalf—one I grant rarely and only in extreme cases.”
“Is this case not extreme?” A lump formed in her throat. “I beg you, highest. Release me from this torment.”
The Jorann laid a hand on her cheek, probing and comforting at one and the same time. She removed her hand. “It is too soon.”
Sharana gasped a sob, and her vision blurred. Everything she had endured could not have been for nothing. “Highest—”
“I know the obstacles you surmounted to come to me, child, but it will injure you further to remove your bond now.”
“I will endure it.”
“I will not inflict it.”
Tears welled up and blinded her. “Highest, I beg you.” She gulped a breath.
The Jorann bent forward, her impassive mask softening. “You are a victim of the game my rulers play.”
Sharana sobbed. “He killed a child!”
“Yes. I know when my rulers violate their own hearts.”
“What will you do?”
“I?” The Jorann straightened. “To determine his fate is the domain of his caste. But know that he is not beyond help. He can again be the man he once was.”
“How? The ruling caste will demand his death.”
“Trust my grandson.” She leaned forward again and placed her hands on Sharana’s shoulders. “I will not do as you wish, but I can ease you. It will give you time to heal.”
Winter dawn colored the ceiling’s white stone in shades of pink and coral. Laura stretched and blinked at it. If the plants outside weren’t the wrong color, if she hadn’t awakened with the ability to rootle around in other people’s emotions, she might think this was some kind of Central Command experiment. But the colors were wrong for any of the Six Planets, and Earth’s government couldn’t turn people into empaths.
So far as she knew.
The scant few days since she’d awakened in this strange place already blurred together. She woke, she ate, she napped off and on through the day, she talked to Syvra and Marianne and the Paran. The aides, who also seemed to function as physical therapists, exercised her to strengthen her weakened right side. Sometimes Marianne brought her little daughter, Rose, who was bright and happy and big for her age. Then Laura slept and did it all over again the next day. But before she slept last night, Syvra had promised her that today she could be up and about.
She looked forward to that. Getting up and moving could only help. The memories came too slowly after that one overwhelming day. Most days she remembered only a little, and much of that brought back scattered scenes of her years with John—notable occasions, special Christmases, milestones in her children’s lives, none of it useful in piecing together her missing life here. She wanted to recover the memories Marianne and the Paran described. Mostly. She sucked in a breath. The kidnapping they told her about wouldn’t be fun to remember.
She rolled onto her side, dropped her legs over the edge of the bed, and pushed herself up to a sitting position, pausing there to gaze out the windows at the garden. One of the yellow-robed apothecary aides bustled in.
“You are to eat your morning meal in the refectory today,” the aide said.
The light seemed to brighten at the news.
The woman laughed. “Let us get you bathed and dressed.”
Laura managed to don the deep purple robe and pants on her own, after a delicious cold shower. When she finished dressing, the aide took some of her weight with a belt around the waist and led her out into a wide corridor lined with colorful banners. It curved out of sight behind her.
“This is huge!” she exclaimed. “How big is this place?”
“It is a very large building,” her companion answered. “Enough to house the guards and the staff.”
“Where is the refectory?”
“There.” The woman gestured with a nod down the hall. “To the right, before the audience room.”
Laura squinted. The glow of a concentrated knot of people lay in that direction.
Her aide chuckled. “Lean on me and tell me if you tire, but your apothecary said you would be equal to this walk.”
Laura concentrated on taking one step at a time, until they turned toward a wide entranceway and into a large room full of tables and chairs, and aromas that started her stomach grumbling.
The Paran sat at a raised table in the middle of the refectory, with Marianne on one side and a woman in a dark brown robe on the other. As soon as she walked through the door, he jumped out of the heavy, ornate chair at the head of the table and hurried to appropriate her from the aide, a boyish grin on his face. His delight danced through her heart.
He pulled out the chair between his throne-like seat and Marianne’s, and helped Laura into it. Unlike the rest of the chairs at the table, it had arms—to keep her from falling over, no doubt. Rose, sitting in Marianne’s lap, grabbed the arm on that side and pulled herself up, grinning at Laura with six teeth. Laura grinned back.
“How old is she?” she asked.
“I am not sure, exactly. I think she has eight—” and the last word didn’t make sense.
“What?”
Marianne’s eyebrows pinched together. “Paranian—the language we speak—lacks the words. They would say she has a season, or she walks her second season. Does that help?”
“Maybe.”
No.
She grabbed a roll from a tray in the middle of the table and shot a glance at the Paran. He leaned back in his chair, sipping at a mug of tea, watching her with bright eyes.
He leaned forward. “Beloved, this is Azana, a mathematician on one of my science teams,” he said, indicating the brown-robed woman with one hand. “And my son, Laryth.”
“Oh.” The air left the room. The woman across the table wore a sling very much like the one Marianne used but smaller, and in the sling lay a tiny bundle cradled in the crook of one arm. Laura pasted a smile on her face, but couldn’t tear her eyes away from the bundle.
My baby.
From the back of her mind came the necessary words. “I greet you.”
“Artist.” Azana’s voice carried soothing undertones, but she curled her body and her senses around Laryth, as if protecting him.
Laura shifted her gaze from Laryth to the Paran. “The people who took care of me kept calling me that. They said I was an artist, here… before?”
He chuckled. “You are a member of the artisan caste in Parania.”
“And a very talented one,” Marianne said. “You must have started drawing very young—do you have any memories of it?”
“I—” It was fuzzy, but not buried behind whatever blocked most of her life. Images filled her mind of a private high school for girls, where art class gave her the only joy and the only good grades she ever earned. She stared at her hands. Flexed them. “I disappointed my father.”
She sensed the Paran’s mood sour. Laryth squeaked a protest, and the Paran forced himself to relax. Laryth continued to fuss.
“Can I hold him?” Laura asked. She turned to the Paran. “I can calm him. Babies like me.”
Marianne put a hand on her shoulder.
“I know I cannot have him back,” she pleaded. “I only want to hold him.”
The Paran gave a slow nod. “Allow it, Azana. She will not harm my son or interfere with your bond with him.”
Azana sucked one side of her lower lip between her teeth as the Paran stood and scooped the tiny, blanket-swaddled, fretting infant out of the sling, then walked around his chair to lay him in Laura’s arms.
“He is so tiny,” she breathed.
Marianne leaned over to look. “How precious!”
Laura pulled the blanket away from the baby’s face. A miniature version of the Paran fussed at her from within the pale green blanket. She cooed at him, and he stopped, staring up at her unblinking. She stroked one soft cheek with a finger. He turned toward it, mouth searching, and revealed a perfect little ear with an extra crease along its upper curve. Just like Papa’s.
Laryth yawned, squeaking like a rusty hinge, and shifted himself against her. From Marianne’s lap, Rose squealed in excitement. His eyes went wide at the sound, then drooped and closed. He uttered a sigh, and his tiny body relaxed.
“See?” Laura whispered. “They like me.”
“You have not lost your touch,” Marianne murmured, holding the eagerly-reaching Rose by the waist. Laura sensed Marianne doing something, trying to rein in her daughter’s enthusiasm.
The Paran twitched a smile. “I remember a conversation at the Sural’s table.”
Marianne’s lips thinned. “Yes, I know. I laughed when the Sural had trouble controlling his daughters. I suppose I deserve to have such a strong-willed child.”
The smile turned into a grin. “She is tall for her age.”
Marianne coughed. “Very like her father.”
“Her father?” The Paran lifted an eyebrow.
“He shares a parental bond with her. We think the Jorann had something to do with that.”
His other eyebrow joined the first.
“What are you talking about?” Laura asked, looking from one to the other.
“Forgive me,” Marianne said. “You were there when these things happened, but of course you cannot remember.”
Laura sighed and gazed down at Laryth. He had her father’s ears—and his resemblance to the Paran left little doubt who his father was. The proof of everything they had told her slept in her arms.
Laryth’s little forehead wrinkled, even in his sleep, as Azana began to lose the battle to control her anxiety. Laura looked up at the Paran. “You should give him back now,” she said. “Azana needs him.”
He stroked her cheek with a thumb before taking Laryth back to Azana. She flashed Laura a grateful smile, tooth marks visible on her lower lip.
“Most Tolari women hardly ever put a baby down for the first season or so,” Marianne murmured, “much less let someone other than a nurse hold them.”
Laura grabbed a piece of fruit and crunched into it. Her cheeks warmed as she chewed, and she looked away.
“You did not know, beloved,” the Paran said, returning to his chair.
Laura nodded, chewing. The Paran put a hand on her wrist. She swallowed and looked up at Azana. “How long have I known you?”
“The Paran sent me to Suralia with a message for you,” she replied, “when Marianne gave birth to her heir. You had just taken the Jorann’s blessing.”
“And stopped being human.”
“In a manner of speaking,” Marianne said. “Tolari are an offshoot of humanity. The Jorann’s blessing just brings us closer to them.”
She turned to consider Marianne. “And how long have I known you?”
“Something over nine standard years.”
“Nine years?” Laura frowned. “But I have no memories of you at all before I woke up here.”
“Most of them will be conversations on the comms while you were in orbit.” Marianne rubbed Laura’s shoulder. “Give it time.”
“Orbit…” Voices rang in her head. The Sun, flaring, spotty, breath-taking, filled the forward monitor as she walked onto the bridge.
“Shielding at three-quarters.”
“Inner hull temperature within acceptable limits.”
“I wanted you to see this, love. Just look at it.”
She blinked. A planet, blue and bigger than Jupiter, spinning against the stars. Another planet—New Spain. And another—Far India. Britannia. New China World. New Arabia. Earth.
Tolar.
“Laura?” Marianne still rubbed her shoulder.
Laura drew a sharp breath.
“What did you see?” the Paran asked.
“The Sun,” she said. “And the colonies from orbit. Beautiful.”
* * *
“That went well.” Marianne put her daughter on the mat-covered floor of the Paran’s open study and flopped into a chair. Rose chugged across the room on all fours and pushed herself up to stand against the windows.
“Indeed.” The Paran, sitting behind his desk, glanced at Rose with a wistful expression. “But I had hoped Laura would remember more before you leave.”
“She still might. Realistically, though, she only stayed with us a few months, and before that it was just conversations over the comms, except for a single day during the trip here. And surely she’ll meet the Sural, at the Circle.”
He leaned back, his face impassive again. “The Sural. Does he perceive a threat in Monralar?”
Marianne snorted.
Be careful what you say, even to Parania himself,
the Sural had told her. “He’s too arrogant to feel threatened by anyone.”
“He would be wise to be watchful. Before autumn ended, Laura visited the Monral’s beloved, and had opportunity to observe the Monral. She returned shaken. He is a dangerous man, even to a grandchild of the Jorann.”
“He couldn’t possibly best the Sural in combat.”
“That has never been his object,” the Paran said. “He seeks a political victory. You may not know that Monralar is the first ruler in our history to achieve a clear majority while a grandchild of the Jorann leads. In a time of conventional rule, the Circle he has called would confirm him as caste leader. We do not know how the Jorann will respond.”
“I keep hearing that she’s never deposed one of her grandchildren.”
“Truth. But neither has she ever interfered with caste decisions. Monralar forces a situation she has never before faced. No one can predict what she will do.”