The Fall Read online

  No word came from the Sural of his own decision to name Farric as his ambassador to the Trade Alliance, and that worried him. Had it been simply a maneuver on Suralia’s part? Or was he to be exposed as a traitor later on in the proceedings?

  But his real worries were closer to home.

  His father had not quite lied, but to one who knew him, it was clear he had not spoken the entire truth either. He mentioned only the agreement with the Den, promising that he would explain to the caste shortly what they would gain for the trade privileges committed to the investors in the new station. He said nothing of any agreement with Earth. And yet Farric recalled the words in which he, Farric, heir to Monralar, had agreed on his world’s behalf to turn over the too-obviously-human bond-partners of Suralia and Parania to the authorities of their homeworld.

  * * *

  Sharana stepped out of the small transport pod. She had left Suralia at the same time as the others but had stopped in Vedelar long enough to miss the opening rituals of the conclave—anything to delay being alone with the Monral. His presence sat above the transit hub, attending the Circle, too exhilarated to hold onto the flare of anger that had surged through the bond when he realized she would not arrive before the caste shut and barred the doors.

  One thing was clear: her bond-partner was no longer using the apothecaries’ drug that had hampered his mind and body. His heart sang in hers with a clarity and exultation she had never felt before.

  She ascended the steps to the main level and found her way to the closed entrance of the Circle. Duty served, she refreshed herself in the Monrali quarters before heading to the refectory, a quarter of the way around the central building’s outer ring. The beloved of Parania sat at one of the many rectangular tables, a yellow belt about her waist and an apothecary’s aide seated beside her. Across the table, Farric’s companion Bertie seemed to be in a state of consternation. When he caught sight of her, he called out.

  “Hallo!” he said, beckoning with hand motions. “Just the person I wanted to see. I could use a little help here.”

  Sharana went to their table and bent in a cordial bow. “I would be happy to assist you.” She turned to Laura and added, “I greet you, beloved of Parania.”

  No spark of recognition came from the Paran’s bond-partner. “Do you speak Paranian?” she asked in that language, a hopeful look on her face.

  “Indeed,” Sharana replied in kind.

  Bertie straightened, his eyebrows rising. “I say, do you speak a language she can understand? She’s obviously human, but she doesn’t speak any language that I know.”

  She took a seat next to him. “I am Sharana,” she said to Laura, “bond-partner to Monralar. Do you remember me?”

  Laura gave her a penetrating look and shook her head. “Have we met?”

  “At the end of autumn, you came to me seeking help to control your empathic abilities. I am like you, a sensitive.”

  “Oh.” Her senses recoiled, and she curled in on herself, retreating behind almost impenetrable barriers. “I remember little of my life here, and I can no longer speak… my human language. I am not the same person you met.”

  Sharana struggled to keep her face impassive. Here sat a woman full of heartache, in sharp contrast to the happiness she displayed during her visit to Monralar. What have the Paranians done to her?

  “What’s she saying?” Bertie asked. “What language is that? It sounds like a cross between Chinese and Spanish.”

  “It seems she speaks only Paranian,” she answered. “She recently suffered a serious head injury. It must have destroyed her ability to speak English. She is the beloved—the bond-partner—of Parania.”

  He turned a broad grin on Laura. “Enchanted. May I ask your name?”

  Laura gave him a polite smile, then met Sharana’s eyes. “How well did we know each other? Did I know him before as well?” she asked quietly.

  “No, he is recently arrived on our world. And you stayed in Monralar a mere handful of days, much of it spent observing me work with another sensitive or engaged in learning exercises.”

  She nodded, and her shoulders relaxed a little. “Good—but I—you see—” She took a deep breath “I am an exile and Earth’s government wishes me gone safely into the dark. It might be a bad idea to tell this young man my name. If he says anything, if they should learn I am here…”

  Sharana glanced at Bertie. “The beloved of Parania wishes to avoid discovery by your people, for reasons of her own.”

  “Oh, they can’t bloody well learn anything from me. I dasn’t stick my nose back in human space after all I’ve done for you lot.”

  She translated. Laura stared at Bertie for a few moments, then said, “Laura Johnson Howard.”

  “Lord Albert St. John Rembrandt,” he replied, with a broad smile. “Call me Bertie.”

  Laura nodded at the translation. “What did you do to anger the Xerg’gli?”

  Sharana stifled a laugh. “She wants to know what you did to anger ‘the old monster.’”

  Bertie grinned. “Facilitated Tolari trade,” he replied. “Made myself their financial advisor. Contracted as Tolar’s attorney and legal representative. But that’s not the worst of it, as far as Central Command is concerned. The worst thing I did was help Tolar contract with the Den to begin construction on a Tolari-owned and controlled trade station. That really stuck a firecracker in it. Apparently, our honored Chairman wanted a station in the Drift under his own control. If I ever set foot in human space again, I’m a dead man.”

  Laura tittered as Sharana repeated what he’d said in Paranian. “Forgive me,” she said in Paranian, covering her mouth with a hand.

  Bertie chuckled. “So how did you come to be here?”

  When Sharana repeated the question, Laura went still, her eyes wide, and declined to answer.

  “Oh dash it, I didn’t mean to frighten you. Forget I asked.”

  Sharana’s senses tingled. A number of presences approached the refectory—including Farric, which meant the Monral might be close behind. Time to face her bond-partner’s anger and battle their mutual bond-hunger.

  Laura swiveled in her chair. The Paran numbered among the first to come through the door from the hall, heading straight for them. Laura’s presence, which had relaxed to some extent during the chat with Bertie, recoiled from him. The Paran’s presence failed to register on Sharana’s senses.

  “Beloved, what frightened you?” he asked.

  “It was nothing,” Laura replied. “Just a misunderstanding.”

  Bertie stood and offered a deep bow when the Paran glanced his way; he waited expectantly, then launched into carefully rehearsed Suralian. “Albert St. John Rembrandt. I am to give a presentation at the next session of the Circle.”

  The Paran extended a hand. “I am the Paran,” he replied in English. “Very good to meet you.”

  The human’s eyes widened, and surprise radiated out from him, but he clasped the Paran’s hand and gave it a shake. “Delighted to make your acquaintance.” He returned to his seat as the Paran slid onto the chair at the head of the table.

  Servants brought trays of food. Bertie slipped a hand into one of his garments and pulled out a small medical scanner. “A gift from Farric,” he said, in answer to the Paran’s curious look. “His apothecary identified the substances in your food that will poison me.” He snatched a piece of fruit from a tray. “Doesn’t want his pet human to kick.”

  “Kick what?” Sharana asked.

  Bertie laughed. “I’m not sure. It’s an old way of saying he doesn’t want me to die. Hm. Not much here I can eat.” He bit into a fruit.

  Farric’s voice echoed off the walls. “Bertie!”

  “Speak of the devil.”

  Sharana moved down a chair, and Farric claimed the one she vacated, glancing at her with a lifted eyebrow. He nodded at the Paran.

  “Deuce if I can figure your politics,” Bertie said. “It’s a complete mash-up. I sat at the right table, didn’t I?”


  Farric grinned and grabbed some food. “Yes, Parania and Monralar are allies.”

  “But your Dad hates Suralia, and he,” he pointed at the Paran, “does not.”

  “Monralar is ambitious,” the Paran said. “I am content to rule my own people.”

  “Oh I see. The Sural being on top doesn’t bother you.”

  “In a manner of speaking. We have also our traditions. Parania has been allied to Suralia for hundreds of years.”

  “Monralar, even longer,” Farric said, “until Father began to challenge the Sural’s leadership. Two ambitious men with mutually-exclusive goals can quickly come to hate each other.”

  “A pity,” Sharana murmured artlessly. “Where is your father?”

  “In meetings with the undecided, arguing his position.”

  “Ah, campaigning,” Bertie said, rolling his eyes. “Of course.”

  Farric elbowed him.

  Laura nodded gracefully to the company, and pushed her food away. “I need to rest. No, stay,” she said when the Paran started to get up. “My aide is sufficient.”

  The Paran eased back down, his eyes never leaving his beloved as the aide helped her to stand and leave the room.

  “There goes a gracious lady,” Bertie said, after she had disappeared into the hall. “Must add learning Paranian to the to-do list. She couldn’t understand us, but she never complained. I should like to know her better.”

  The Paran’s face softened. “Indeed.”

  Suddenly, his barriers tumbled and the longing and heartache ran over Sharana like the torrent of a spring thaw. But his bond-partner was gone.

  * * *

  The Paran clicked open the door to the quarters assigned to his party, the Brial close behind him. In the dim light of the sitting room, he stopped and searched the suite with his senses; his beloved and his son’s fafea both slept.

  “It does not go well,” he said, after clicking the door shut. “Unless you want to see Monralar as caste leader?”

  His friend emitted a snort and flopped into a chair at one side of the semi-circular room. “The man went beyond his authority to contact the humans without consulting the rest of us. And I am in no way convinced that the odalli are such pushovers as he implies.”

  “Then you will support Suralia?” He pulled a bottle of spirits and two small cups from a cupboard, placed them on a low table among the chairs and divans, and took a seat across from his friend.

  “I would die in the snow first.” The Brial leaned forward to pour. “But the non-aligned provinces make no difference now. Monralar has won.”

  “If you back Suralia, it might sway enough of Monralar’s supporters back to me.”

  “Your coalition is dead, my friend.” The Brial slurped his drink.

  He heaved a loud sigh and sipped from his own cup. “What would the Paran my grandfather say?”

  The Brial smirked and puffed out his chest. “However did my daughter produce such a weak heir?” he said, in his deepest voice.

  The Paran grabbed a small stone statue from a side table and threw it at him. The Brial ducked to one side, and it bounced off the back of his chair to fly into a cabinet against the wall. Something within rattled.

  “Daakh,” his friend muttered. “That would have hurt.”

  “Toughen your skin in the arena. Or sharpen your reflexes—you should have caught it.”

  The Brial snorted. “I’m glad this Circle will be a short affair—I would wager three days at most, thank the absent Benefactors. All you bonded rulers are growing irritable already, being so far from their people, but you more than most.”

  “Do you not intend to go before the Jorann tomorrow and join us among the bonded?” he asked, ignoring the second half of the comment.

  “I do, but you evade my point.” He cast a pointed look at the door to Laura’s sleeping room.

  The Paran stood up and paced. “Hah.” His own eyes fell on her door, and he stopped mid-pace. He turned. “How is Bradyn?”

  Brialar shook his head. “He recovers but slowly, buried in his work; he sent word that he would be here tomorrow.”

  “He should have arrived for the opening.”

  “Such is his distraction of late. Did he not already have an heir, I would fear for my line. Your daughter had truly captured my son’s heart.”

  “She was a remarkable woman.”

  “She was, in truth.”

  They fell silent. Eyes stinging, the Paran resumed his pacing.

  “And what of your new son?”

  “Fortunate to live and thrive.”

  “The timing of your bond-partner’s misfortune was… interesting.”

  The Paran threw himself back into a chair. “You find schemes where none exist, Brialar. I was present. I saw my beloved—” Her scream rang in his memory, and he shuddered. “It was purely accident. She tripped.”

  “Forgive me, my friend.” The Brial’s eyes glimmered in the low light.

  The Paran shook himself and refilled the cups. “No doubt we will survive the Monral, as we have survived other rulers in the past. My artisans will welcome trade with races other than the Kekrax.”

  “As will mine. Monralar may be right that joining the Trade Alliance could foster an artistic awakening.”

  “Still, we jump into the fire too quickly.” He swallowed the cup’s contents in one gulp and poured more.

  “There is little point in debating it.” The Brial sipped at his cup. “We already sit at that fire. Monralar made binding agreements.”

  “Indeed. And Suralia did nothing to challenge them.”

  “I did notice. You think he schemes something?”

  The Paran snorted. “The Sural always schemes something.”

  * * *

  Marianne brushed a kiss across her sleeping daughter’s chubby little cheek and tucked the blanket covering her into the sides of her cot. The Sural lounged in the doorway behind her.

  “If you wake her,” she whispered as she tiptoed away, “you’re a dead man.”

  He rumbled a chuckle as he followed her back into the sitting room.

  “I’m serious.” She aimed a poke at his stomach. It never landed. He bent over the hand he’d captured and kissed her fingers, eyes glinting. Men! “Keeping her on a regular schedule was impossible with all the traveling.”

  “Time has no meaning at a Circle,” he said. “It can be the night meridian on one side of the complex and the day meridian on the other.”

  “And everything in between, yes, I know.” She pulled her mouth sideways and dropped into a divan. “Storaas told me. I don’t care. Babies need structure.”

  He took a seat beside her. “Rose is not human. You cannot expect her to behave as one.”

  “Yes, I can. She’s my daughter.”

  He laughed. She clapped a hand over his mouth.

  “Dead man, remember?” Heat flared in his eyes, and his tongue tickled her palm. She snatched her hand back and shook a finger at him. “Oh, no you don’t. You’re not getting your way with me until you explain what’s going on.”

  He lifted an eyebrow. “Monralar seeks to unseat me.”

  “No! Really?” She rolled her eyes. “I could see that, even without understanding all the nuances. Which you ought to explain to me, by the way.”

  “He has a chance to succeed, this time.”

  Marianne considered the prospects for a Tolar led by the Monral, and the thought provoked a shudder. She knew enough Tolari history to imagine what that might be like, at least for the ruling caste. “Doesn’t the Jorann have a say?”

  “In caste matters? She has always been reluctant to interfere.”

  “But she appointed you!”

  “She did, but the position was vacant. And I have been caste leader longer than most of her grandchildren. The opposition bloc’s argument has merit, on that point.”

  She blinked. “Are you saying you want to step down?”

  “No.”

  “Can you beat this?”
r />   “I have plans to undermine Monralar’s scheme, but much depends on how much his ambition has affected his sanity and his honor. And regardless of which of us leaves the Circle as leader of the ruling caste, Tolar has veered away from the course I had envisioned. I must make accommodations to his bloc, even should I prevail.”

  “Hence all the private meetings.” She nodded to herself. “What’s on the agenda for tomorrow?”

  “Those unbonded rulers who wish may go before the Jorann. Meanwhile, we continue to debate the best course for our world.” He snaked an arm around her and pulled her toward him. “Have I answered enough questions?”

  His eyes fixed on her mouth. A shiver went through her belly.

  “Ba! Ba! Ba!”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  The Brial knelt in the blankets piled before the crystal throne and suppressed a shiver as he settled onto his heels. Within the shimmering field surrounding the Jorann and her seat, the cold bit through the five layers of ceremonial brocade robes he wore.

  He looked up into the fair face and blue eyes, so different from the dark skin and brown eyes of her children. She appeared very young, but her presence—what of it she allowed to show—showed signs of the long years she had spent guiding Tolar. He felt like an infant before her. Her lips twitched into a slight smile.

  “You lack your grandfather’s ambition, child.” A glint shone in her eyes. She cocked her head, and fantastically complicated braided knots shifted around her shoulders.

  “Yes, highest,” he replied. “I love my province and my people, but leading the ruling caste carries no attraction for me.”

  “And yet your grandfather burned for it.”

  “The caste decided on another.”

  “Is that why neither you, nor your father before you, came at my summons?”

  “Grandfather declared enmity. My shadow will never fall in Suralia.”

  The Jorann lifted a disapproving brow. “My grandson is bound by law to provide safe passage for any ruler I summon. I summoned your father when your grandfather walked into the dark. I summoned you when your father did in his turn. Why did you not come?”