The Fall Page 11

  “There is no shame if you must retreat,” he murmured.

  She made a desperate grab for the whales’ net and wrapped herself in thread after thread, until everything outside of herself and the Paran faded.

  “No,” she whispered. “I said I would stay with you. I can do this.”

  His brows pinched with doubt, but he nodded. The bier began to move down the road, self-directed, at a walking pace. The Paran took her hand and followed. Behind them, at least two dozen provincial heirs walked. Ahead, the crowds increased, an impossibly bright gauntlet. The blood drained from her face. If her empathic barriers crumbled, so would she.

  The Paran gave her hand a brief squeeze. She returned the pressure. You can do this, she told herself. Just hold on.

  The route covered several kilometers of a broad arc through the city, and the sun’s bright spot glared in the clouds overhead when they turned onto the broad avenue leading to its central plaza. Red fabric draped the windows and doors of the buildings lining the square, and in the middle stood an obelisk of brick-red marble, perhaps five meters high. Silvery glyphs dotted the polished, gleaming stone at regular intervals.

  Silence fell, broken only by an occasional sniffle, as the bier stopped before the towering pillar. The Paran let go her hand and stepped forward to bend over the bodies of his daughter and grandson, pressing his forehead against each one’s cheek, murmuring words Laura couldn’t understand. When he straightened, he stepped back several meters and pulled Laura against his side.

  A woman standing next to the obelisk began to sing. Though Laura couldn’t understand the words, her heart plunged.

  The Paran’s hand at her waist squeezed. “The musician’s gift,” he said, in a low voice.

  She took a deep breath as the music swirled around her, thrumming, sinking into melancholy. The music seemed almost alive, rising and falling as flames appeared beneath the bier and began to lick at its crimson draping. Fire had engulfed the platform by the time the woman finished her song and a man took her place to sing a different but equally sad dirge. When his song died away, another singer stepped up, and then another, and another, until Laura lost count of those joining with the fire’s voice to sing the bodies to ash.

  When nothing remained to burn, and the flames had died away, servants knelt on the paving stones and brushed the ashes into a red crystal jar, which they placed at the base of the obelisk. Then the servant caste leader, with enough sadness on her face to fill an ocean, knelt to fit it with a cover. She stood and bowed, holding out the jar toward the Paran, who left Laura’s side to take it from her. He cradled the jar to his chest, head bowed, as the servant backed away. A profound silence fell.

  I love you, my beloved, Laura thought at him, hoping he could sense the feeling through the fog of grief enveloping him. You still have me. You’ll always have me.

  He straightened and squared his shoulders. Taking a deep breath, he placed a hand on a glyph just above his head, which opened sideways to reveal a space barely large enough to fit the jar. The hollow scrape of crystal against stone rang through the stillness. Another touch and the niche closed. He bowed, deeply, both hands over his heart. Then, eyes glistening, he turned away from the spire to face his people.

  Sobs broke from thousands of throats across the multitude assembled in the square, unleashing a tidal wave of grief and anguish which slammed into Laura, shredding her defenses. She was almost grateful when the world exploded into burning shards of darkness, and the agony ceased.

  Chapter Twelve

  Laura opened her eyes on the pale stone ceiling of her sleeping room. She took a deep breath of the chill air and extended senses that felt as if someone had sanded them with hot coals. The Paran was… far away, but someone sat nearby—one of the few apothecary aides who spoke English, sitting on a low chair, wrapped in a heavy blanket, with a tablet in her hand, as if she had been reading.

  “Artist?” the woman said.

  “Did I faint?” Laura asked.

  “You did. The apothecaries say you took no permanent harm, but you should remain in the stronghold for now. Do you feel better?”

  She got an elbow underneath her and pinched the bridge of her nose with her other hand. “I think so. Where’s the Paran?”

  “He remains in the city. The sending is finished, but the mourning continues.”

  “I should be there—”

  “No, artist, you must rest. The apothecaries insist.”

  Laura growled and collapsed back onto the mat. “I should have better barriers.”

  “No one expects you to be proficient so soon.”

  “I do.”

  A shadow of a smile touched the yellow-robed woman’s lips.

  “Well, I do. But it’s harder than it seems.” Laura heaved a sigh. “You can go warm up now. I’ll be fine.”

  “You will not attempt to rejoin the Paran?”

  Laura rolled her eyes. “I’ll behave, yes.”

  The aide rose and bowed her thanks. As the door closed behind her, Laura kicked herself.

  “Hell’s bells,” she muttered, then sat up and looked around. Her tablet lay on the shelf beside her hairbrush. She scrambled off the mat to grab it. Light reading had gotten her through the first weeks after losing John, even if no one understood that. The heroine in the novel she was reading now had just discovered she was pregnant, but hadn’t told the father. If she did, the baby would be heir to a fortune—

  Laura stared at the tablet in her palm, frozen as the reality of the Paran’s situation rolled over her. Heir. The Paran needed an heir.

  I won’t make the Paran’s life difficult if he has to be with other women, she’d said while visiting Marianne in Suralia. Right. What on Earth—on Tolar—whatever—had she been thinking?

  I must hurt you as a result of this, the Paran said in the arena. And that was the truth of it, not the sanctimonious pronouncement she made to impress her young friend.

  She threw the tablet at a chair and ran out the door, down the red-draped hall, and into the echoing library. The old stone sculptor gazed out from the unfinished charcoal, still set up near a window overlooking the city. She could leave it there. Little Veryth would never pull it down or push over the easel or steal the charcoal when no one was looking. Eyes stinging, she tilted her head against the window. The city spread across the coastal lowland, dull and gray under the heavy clouds, and a glow on the horizon marked where the sun lay hidden.

  The Paran’s sadness throbbed in her heart, tinged bittersweet. Perhaps he was reminiscing about his daughter and grandson now, sharing memories with his people.

  I said I would be there with him.

  She sucked in a deep breath and let it go. Her forehead ached, and even the relatively small number of people in the stronghold grated across her senses. The city… the apothecaries were right. She couldn’t go back there yet.

  She closed her eyes and took another deep breath, imagining a heavy stone wall, building it until her awareness of the people around her faded and she felt alone.

  “Artist?”

  The imaginary wall crumbled, and all the grief in the stronghold scorched across her senses. She whirled to face the speaker, a servant with a carefully impassive expression and a crimson sash cinching his black robe at the waist.

  “Forgive me,” the man murmured, bowing. He extended a hand with her tablet in it. “The Paran is returning from the city and will arrive soon.”

  “Good, yes, thank you.” She accepted the hand-sized rectangle and slipped it into a pocket. “You can go.”

  The servant left, and Laura slumped against the window, re-imagining her wall. It didn’t keep the Paran out, not since they bonded, but his grief seemed lighter.

  And he was closer. Definitely closer.

  He needs an heir. She pressed a hand over the tiny glow of her pregnancy. I wish it could be you, little one.

  But…

  “You’re his son as well as mine,” she said aloud. “Why not, after all?” />
  She pushed away from the window, headed for the keep’s great doors, which remained open despite the damp. The road to the city spilled from the stronghold’s threshold, as if it wanted to be accessible and unafraid. Down the way, a small crowd neared, the Paran’s tall, red-robed figure visible in front and the pale robes of visiting high ones mixed in with the darker colors of ordinary Paranians. She kept her eyes on the Paran’s face as he approached, and felt the moment he spotted her in the doorway, his emotions swirling into a mix of gladness, relief, and concern.

  “Beloved,” he murmured, as he climbed the last step to the entrance and turned to face the little pack of people he’d brought with him. His fingers brushed hers, but he didn’t take her hand. Instead, he bowed deeply toward his companions and spoke some words in Paranian that sounded prepared. The group responded, more or less as one, and dispersed, some turning back down the road, some brushing past them into the keep.

  “They walked with you all the way from the city?” Laura asked, pointing her chin at the little group of dark robes retreating back the way they came.

  The Paran nodded. He looked out at the gathering dark a few moments longer, then heaved a sigh. “They knew her.” His arm slipped around Laura’s shoulders. “Come.”

  The great doors closed behind them as he shepherded her down the main corridor and into the common room, where trays of food and drink lay spread about on low tables. A few pale-robed provincial heirs clumped near one, a pastel gathering engaged in quiet conversation and helping themselves to the refreshments. On the far end of the room, the young heir to Monralar sparked in an intense discussion with a greying man in scholar blue. On the opposite end, a medium-tall, broad-shouldered man in pale olive stood before a window, his back to the room, sunk in grief—the Brial’s son. The Paran veered toward him.

  “Bradyn,” he said.

  The man half-turned and responded with a word in Paranian that Laura knew—the greeting between members of the ruling caste. “Dear one.”

  The Paran laid a hand on Bradyn’s shoulder and spoke quietly in a language Laura didn’t recognize. Their conversation lasted only a few moments before they bowed to each other and the Paran led her away, back into the cool of the main corridor. The torches were lit now, artificial but so convincing that Smitty and Addie had thought them real, when they visited first Monralar and then Suralia at first contact. The fiery crowns danced, merrily oblivious to the grim atmosphere, and gave a warm light to the provincial banners lining the hallway.

  When they reached the family wing’s relative privacy, Laura said, “His heart is broken.”

  The Paran nodded as they headed into his quarters. “He said he will leave for Brialar shortly.”

  “He wants to grieve at home.”

  “Indeed.”

  Laura stopped at the low table in the middle of the sitting room. Trays of food and a carafe occupied it. The Paran poured himself some tea and dropped into a nearby divan. She slid onto it beside him, the sight of food prompting her stomach to chirp its neglect.

  “Eat,” he said over the lip of the mug.

  “I don’t see you eating,” she replied, but she leaned forward to grab a roll and flopped back, contemplating it.

  The Paran cocked his head, brows creased. “What matter weighs on your heart?”

  “This isn’t the time for it. You just got back from your daughter’s funeral.”

  “My grief does not incapacitate me, beloved.”

  “Are you sure?”

  He nodded.

  The small of her back prickled, but she pressed ahead. “You need an heir.” She took a breath. “What if—is it possible—what about the baby we made? He’s your son too, and then you wouldn’t have to find another woman to... to do that.”

  He blinked. “Beloved—”

  “You don’t have to give an answer today, of all days. Just say you’ll think about it.”

  “Do you understand what you are offering?”

  “I—” She deflated. “No, probably not. But I’m willing to do whatever it takes.”

  Shock and confusion shot through him in equal measure. “By law I can only make the request of a woman with an heir.”

  “I have five.”

  A jolt went through him.

  “Don’t my children count? I’m a mother. A grandmother.”

  “The situation—what you offer—it has no precedent,” he said. “The leader of the ruling caste must agree that your human children qualify you to mother a child for the ruling caste.”

  The Sural. He was a ruthless tyrant and a murdering savage, but he’d always treated her as if he wanted to make up for taking John away from her. Maybe he’d take that into consideration. “All right. Suppose he agrees. What else? There’s something else. You’re full of misgivings.”

  “We must complete a genetic analysis of this child. The one we requested before engendering him could relate only probabilities. Your son may satisfy my caste’s requirements. If he does not…” He left the conclusion hanging in the air.

  “But if he does, what then? You’re still holding something back.”

  He stood and paced away from her. “When he has six seasons and his first bond dissolves,” he said to the far wall, “you must step aside and allow him to bond to me. I will have no choice but to interfere if you do not. With your sensibilities—” He took a deep breath and turned. “It will be very painful for you. He will no longer regard you as his mother.”

  “I’ll do what I have to do.” She swallowed hard. “If I can survive losing John, I can get through anything.”

  “My beloved,” he whispered, pressing his cheek against her hair. “Very well. Go to the apothecaries. I will inform them of the situation.”

  * * *

  In the morning, with the analysis still in whatever processing limbo it occupied, Laura sipped at her tea and watched the Paran pick at his breakfast. His lack of interest in food dampened even her rapacious appetite. But at least he was sober, and the grief pouring into him through his ruling bond had diminished since the funeral.

  A chime sounded from somewhere in the Paran’s robe.

  “Our initial analysis didn’t take this long,” she said.

  He put the roll down and wiped his hands. “A detailed study of your son’s genetic characteristics is a more lengthy task.”

  “Oh.”

  The chiming tablet silenced as he pulled it out, and his eyes fixed on the object in his hand while Laura’s stomach tied itself into knots. Finally, he heaved a sigh. Her heart leapt into her throat.

  “What does it say? Is my baby good enough?”

  “He is not a sensitive,” he said. His eyes continued to move over the tablet.

  Silence stretched again. “That’s good, right?” she prompted. “A sensitive ruler would have a difficult time of it?”

  The Paran nodded. “One exists—my friend the Brial. And yes, it affects his ability to fight.” He put the tablet aside. “Your son meets the requirements of the ruling caste.”

  The air left her in a gust. “That’s the first good news I’ve heard in days.”

  His face turned bleak. “You may think differently when you must give up his bond.”

  “I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it.”

  “You are certain you wish to do this? If the Sural approves your offer, and your son is designated my heir, you cannot reverse it.”

  Laura’s breath came in shallow puffs. “I understand.”

  The Paran stared at her so long she began to wonder if he would refuse. His gaze wandered past her shoulder, then back to her face. “Very well. I will send a petition.”

  * * *

  Official mourning continued, but the servants brought her a deep purple robe the next morning rather than the red. The Paran, too, donned his pale green, but with a crimson sash. He looked ghastly as he embarked on his first day of work without Vondra.

  His duties kept him late, without his daughter’s help. That was a good thing
, to Laura’s mind, though she fought back twinges of envy while making her own unsuccessful attempt to keep busy. She spent that day, and the next, and the next, trying and failing to become absorbed in the stone sculptor’s portrait. Finally, on the fourth day, she woke to a new and familiar presence in the stronghold, and she rushed through her morning routine to find Storaas sitting at the high table with the Paran. The rejuvenated Suralian took on a glow at the sight of her.

  “It delights me to see you again,” he said, as she took her usual seat at the Paran’s left and across the table from the Sural’s chief advisor.

  Her first genuine smile in days found its way onto her face. “Likewise,” she replied. “How is everyone? How’s Cena?”

  “Very well. Cena has given up her duties as head apothecary until after her son is born. She spends the time in research.”

  “I did not make the acquaintance of your love-partner during the conference,” the Paran said.

  “That’s because Storaas had a heart attack when he saw you.” Laura began to peel a piece of fruit. “She spent her time taking care of him.”

  “Indeed,” Storaas said. “The shock was substantial, and I was, as you may have seen, quite old at the time.”

  “The Sural thought my resemblance to his father to be unusual.”

  Storaas let his gaze linger on the Paran’s face. “I could almost believe you the same man.”

  “But?”

  “Kazryn possessed a gentle spirit. He had no ambition, nor any desire to rule. But there is fire in you.”

  “Mm-hmm,” Laura mumbled around a mouthful of food. Both men turned their gaze on her. She shrugged and swallowed. “Well, there is.”

  The Paran chuckled.

  Turning his gaze back to Laura, Storaas sobered. “The Paran has made a most unusual petition on your behalf,” he said.

  She took a deep breath and nodded. “My baby.”

  “A woman who is also a sensitive rarely undertakes to engender an heir other than her own. Has the Paran explained to you why that is?” Storaas leaned back, steepling his fingers together.