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  His brows pulled together. “When did you speak with the Jorann?”

  “In my dream. And then I thought—when the Brial told you to go to me—I thought you would because you said—you said I was beautiful—but you walked past my door.” Knives stabbed her heart, and she fell into deep, wracking sobs. “It was just a dream.”

  “You still want me?” he asked, in an almost inaudible whisper. A warm hand touched her shoulder.

  She jerked away. “Does it matter? I am not your Laura anymore! But I remember who I am. I remember my father giving me a diamond necklace for my eighteenth birthday, and my mother comforting me when the other girls teased me, and Thomas and Steven getting black eyes defending me from bullies. I am Laura. I lost forty years of my life—my life—when I fell. You did not lose me. I lost you!”

  He lifted a hand to her face. “Beloved, look at me.”

  She sucked in a ragged breath and raised her eyes. He lowered his head and pressed a gentle kiss onto one eye, licked her tears from his lips, and kissed the other.

  Sightless, she gazed into his heart to confront her rival—and saw herself. His heart unrolled before her, and she found the treasures of her life in the recesses of his mind. Motionless, he held it out before her as a gift. His mouth moved down her cheek and nibbled at the corner of hers. She swallowed a hiccup.

  “You are beautiful,” he murmured, and slanted his lips across hers, his tongue tickling and seeking, salty with her tears. She opened her mouth to him, moaning, and their tongue tips danced against each other. He nibbled the other corner of her mouth, across her cheek and down her neck. “I want you,” he said, his voice hoarse. He poured himself into their bond, and his radiance burst around her. “Bond with me.”

  She reached into him, fumbling—found the way—found him. He gasped, and her body came alive, her skin electrified, every touch sending shivers from head to toe. She looked for the fastenings of his robe, yearning to feel his skin against hers, but he was already tearing the unwanted fabric away. Then, in a gentle rush, he untied her bed-robe and slipped it over her shoulders.

  He rolled onto his back and pulled her on top of him. She leaned forward to seal his mouth with hers. Only sensation existed, mouths and skin and loins, the rhythm and the building exaltation, until, at the still point, they reached for each other at an even deeper level and shattered together into rapture.

  He was… he was... the name eluded her, as she knew it must. But she knew every movement of his heart as if it were her own.

  She was Laura, and his heart held no other.

  Strength exhausted, she collapsed onto him, panting against the soft skin of his neck as the radiance faded. He wrapped his arms around her, stroking her back and arms, gentle, blissful.

  “Is it,” she whispered, “is it always like that?”

  He purred. “Yes.”

  “Then I cannot understand how you get anything else done.”

  A laugh rumbled out of him. She slipped to one side and molded her body against his, a delicious lassitude weighing her down. Contentment vibrated through him, resonated into her, thrummed back and forth between them.

  “Beloved,” she murmured, and then fatigue carried her off into sleep.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Warm fingers stroked Laura’s arm. She opened her eyes to find her face pressed against a copper-skinned chest.

  He’s still here!

  She kissed the skin pressed against her lips, and her stomach clenched. No—his stomach had clenched. She looked up. Warm ebony eyes gazed back. The Paran lay on his side with his head on his elbow, running his free hand along her body. She stroked his smooth, hard chest, letting her hand wander south.

  “We must ready ourselves for the Circle,” he said, in a half-whisper, half-murmur.

  She groaned. There went that idea. “Both of us?” she asked.

  “Both of us.”

  “Must we?”

  He chuckled. “Yes. Will you roll over?”

  “Why?”

  “You are lying on my hair.”

  She grinned. “Now I know how to keep you here.”

  “Beloved, I know how it is you like to wake up.” She started to protest, then thought the better of it when she realized he was right. The Paran stroked her cheek with his thumb. “But we must make ready. I will send in an aide to help you.”

  Heaving a sigh, she rolled off his hair. He got up and headed for the door.

  “Wait! Where are you going?”

  “To the bathing area in my sleeping room. Yours is too cold.”

  “But you are naked!” she exclaimed. “Azana is out there!”

  He lifted his eyebrows. Casting about, he found his torn robe and wrapped it around his waist like a towel. “Is this sufficient to alleviate your anxiety?” His lips twitched.

  She pouted. “Now you are making fun of me.”

  “Never.” He bent over the bed to press his lips against her forehead. A shiver went through her. “A promise for later,” he whispered, and disappeared out the door.

  Laura sighed and pushed herself upright.

  The aide he sent came in and fussed over her, getting her ready for the day. The Paran waited in the sitting room when she emerged, bathed and dressed. His face lit at the sight of her, and he quickly appropriated her from the aide, wrapping his senses around her as he took her arm. She sighed into him.

  “To the refectory,” he said.

  That room, when they arrived, hummed with conversation. Most of the caste occupied the room, with heirs of all ages and a scattering of bond-partners. Many rulers sat deep in conversation with one another. The Paran paused to look around and led Laura into the crowd.

  Azana occupied one of the smaller tables with Bertie and a solemn-faced Farric. When they reached it, the two young men moved down a place to give Laura a chair near the head of the table. When Laura settled into the one Farric had vacated, the Paran dropped into the seat at the end. Her aide found a place on the other side of Bertie.

  Bertie caught her eye and gave her a polite nod. “I greet you,” he said in heavily accented Paranian.

  She grinned while grabbing her food. “Are you learning my language?”

  The human paused, blinking.

  “He has begun to learn Paranian, yes,” Farric supplied.

  “My gratitude,” she said, with a seated bow.

  Bertie grinned. “My honor,” he replied.

  “Parania.” The Brial’s voice came from behind the Paran. Amidst all the commotion, his approach had hardly registered. A grim expression replaced his usual roguish twinkle.

  The Paran swiveled and sobered when he saw his friend’s face. He turned back to Laura. “I must speak with Brialar,” he said. “Can you make your way to the great hall and meet me there?”

  “Yes, I think so,” she answered. Then she added, “Beloved.”

  He stopped in the act of rising from his chair and leaned over to plant a lingering kiss on her mouth.

  Bertie coughed.

  The Paran straightened and stroked her cheek, his face aglow. Laura looked around. Across the table, Azana gazed at them with a slight upward curve of her lips, but the Brial stood behind him, staring at the Paran’s back as if he wanted to bore a hole through him with his eyes.

  “Come, Parania, my hair is growing.”

  Laura flushed. “Go. I will be fine.”

  The Paran spun and threaded his way through the room toward the door to the hall, Brialar on his heels. She turned back to her meal. On the other side of her, Farric stared after the two rulers, brows contracted. The sadness and apprehension in him tugged at her heart. He relaxed his face and gave her a polite smile when he noticed her attention.

  Bertie said something. Farric uttered a soft laugh.

  Laura picked at her meal. The Paran’s mood had become uneasy.

  “Are you well?” Azana asked, the tone of her voice tentative.

  She looked up. Little sparks of hope shot through the woman on the oth
er side of the table. She sighed. Time to start mending another relationship.

  “Yes, I—”

  Stark disbelief.

  Searing grief.

  Hatred and rage.

  Laura gasped under the onslaught of emotion slamming into her from the Paran. All eyes at the table swiveled toward her. Ignoring them, she shoved at the table and struggled to her feet. The aide hurried to her side.

  “Artist?” the woman said, taking an arm and gripping her belt. “Are you ill?”

  She clung to the woman. “Get me to the Paran. Now.”

  “Of course. Lean on me.”

  Voices chattered all around her as they moved through the room, eyes glancing at her, brows lifting as they passed. She imagined a room in the center of Machu Picchu and pictured herself in it—with the Paran—tons upon tons of rock all around them. The idle curiosity ebbed.

  “Which way, artist?” the aide asked, when they reached the corridor.

  Their connection—their bond—pulled her like a taut cable. Laura pointed. “That way.”

  She made her way down the hall, leaning on the aide, the hatred and rage fading to… loathing and simmering fury. It led her to a door.

  “Here,” she said. “Stay here.”

  She pulled away from the aide and clicked the door open. Within the room, four Tolari high ones stood around a table: the Paran, the Brial, and two others in Brialar’s pale olive, one a travel-stained man with a slight resemblance to the Brial and the other an adolescent boy. They looked up as she came in.

  The Paran bounded to her side. “You should not be here, beloved.” He clicked the door shut behind her.

  “You need me,” she said, taking his arm. “What happened?”

  The Brial emitted a grim sigh. “I see you have repaired your bond. My regrets that we did not bring you this information at a better time.”

  “There can be no good time for what you bring me,” the Paran replied, as he helped Laura to a chair.

  “What?” she asked. “What are you talking about?”

  “You must tell her, Parania. She is affected by the outcome.”

  “What outcome?” she demanded.

  The Paran dropped into a chair. “I must challenge Monralar.”

  “Who will likely kill him,” the Brial added.

  “What?”

  “I can best the Monral,” said the Paran.

  The Brial snorted. “In an honorable fight, you can best most of us. Do you think he will fight honorably?”

  “He would not dare to kill in the Jorann’s presence!”

  “You are yourself too honorable to see his treachery, Parania.”

  “Stop!” Laura shouted. The men stared at her. “What is going on?”

  “I am Bradyn,” the other man in olive said, “heir to Brialar. I fathered the Paran’s grandson.”

  “Oh.” She swallowed. “My heart grieves for your pain.”

  He put a hand on his heart and nodded his head. “Since Vondra’s death, I have conducted an investigation into its cause, independent of those carried out by Parania and Suralia. I found evidence which they did not, circumstantial but compelling. The Sural’s advisor Storaas confirms my reading of the traces. They point to Monralar.”

  The Brial’s face had darkened at the mention of Suralia, but his voice was flat. “It is not enough to seal his guilt. But it is enough to cast a shadow on his eligibility to lead the caste. Grandson—” he turned his head to catch the adolescent boy’s eye, “did you make the preparations?”

  “The word is passed, Grandfather, and the nature of the proof,” the boy said. “The information will go to every delegation in the complex.”

  “Hah! Excellent. Let Monralar’s own people ponder his crime. That may be enough.”

  “It is enough to allow a challenge.” The Paran’s eyes blazed.

  Laura gaped. “Why would the Monral do that to you? Why kill your daughter? He is your ally!”

  “He seems to have discovered it was your Paran who informed Suralia of Monralar’s dealings with the humans five years ago,” the Brial said.

  The Paran’s lips thinned. “I brought it to the Parania my mother’s attention when he diverted transmissions from the planetary sensor net.”

  “What did you think she would do with that information?”

  “Wait,” Laura interrupted. “Why kill his daughter? What did she do?”

  The Paran’s face went dark. “She did nothing.”

  “Monralar took revenge for Parania’s interference with his plans for the humans,” Bradyn said. “He wanted to hurt your Paran, politically and personally.”

  “He succeeded.” The Paran spat out the words. “On both paths.”

  Laura rubbed her eyes. “Why do you have to challenge him?”

  “For the good of all, we must remove him from the Game.” The Brial glanced at his son and then back to Laura. “He killed a first-bond child. As leader of the caste, the Sural may not challenge in Circle unless the challenge comes to him directly. And of the three of us here, the Paran is the one with the skill to best the Monral.”

  “But if he kills your Paran,” Bradyn added, “you will die.”

  “And if the Paran defeats Monralar, Sharana will die,” the boy said.

  “They could survive—” the Paran began.

  The Brial shook his head. “Your beloved is the most powerful sensitive I have ever seen, Parania, and her power is growing. Only the Jorann exceeds her. She would not survive the shock, and neither would the beloved of Monralar. Whatever the outcome today, an innocent will go into the dark.”

  “Brialar—”

  “Do you deny it? You are not usually so dull, my friend. Count the cost.”

  The Paran slammed his hand on the table with enough force to make Laura’s palm tingle. “I must challenge him, whether he will fight with honor or no.”

  Laura flexed her tingling hand. “Then at least we die together.”

  The room went silent.

  “I remember watching John die in front of me. At least I will not have to survive losing you. If your Tolari honor demands that you challenge him, then—do it.”

  “Beloved.” The Paran reached for her hand, his eyes locked on hers. His senses reached out and curled around her.

  “And Monralar claims humans have no courage,” the Brial said with a snort. He stood and bowed to Laura. “Artist. Dear ones, it is time.”

  “What happens now?” she asked, as the Paran rose from his chair and assisted her to her feet.

  “The caste meets to decide on the question of conventional rule,” the Paran said.

  “And the Jorann gives her opinion on it,” the Brial finished.

  Bradyn’s son added, “And then they fight.”

  Laura winced. The Paran pulled her against his side as they entered the corridor. His emotions boiled in a stew of anger, outrage, and grief on the one hand, with flashes of tenderness, gratitude, and passion on the other. He cast repeated glances down at her as they progressed down the hall, looking at her as if they had just fallen in love.

  She supposed they had, in a way, and just in time to die together, if the Brial had it right. The Paran seemed confident he could beat the Monral in a fair fight. The Brial seemed just as confident the Monral would fight dirty, but she couldn’t understand how he could get away with cheating in a room full of empaths.

  They trailed into the great hall, among the last few to arrive. Azana already sat on the Paranian dais, with Laryth sleeping on her shoulder. As the Paran assisted Laura to her place, she glanced toward the Jorann’s throne and did a double-take—her light, her empathic presence, too bright not to see, occupied the crystal seat, but her body did not. The rulers nearest her gave no sign that they were aware of her.

  The doors closed. The room hushed. The Jorann appeared. Laura snorted at herself. She should have known the Jorann could camouflage, like the rest of them. The Sural nodded almost imperceptibly to Bradyn, then stepped off his dais to stand at
the foot of the Jorann’s throne, facing the Circle, and began to speak.

  The Paran murmured a translation. “We are here to decide on the question brought before us by Monralar. Those who wish to make free choice of a new leader for the ruling caste, stand.”

  One by one, most of the rulers stood. The Sural’s eyes scanned each arc of platforms. He spoke again, and the Paran whispered, “Seventy-four!”

  The Sural turned and addressed the Jorann. The Paran’s eyes widened when she replied.

  “She says, The ruling caste governs my children as they see fit.”

  * * *

  Triumph!

  The Monral remained standing as his supporters lowered themselves to the blankets, exaltation almost lifting him into the air. The Jorann had seen reason. After all the long years of Suralia’s rule, they would finally be rid of the Sural. By day’s end, Sharana would be once more by his side, and they could put all the unpleasantness behind them.

  “Who represents the caste in this decision?” the Jorann called.

  “I do,” he said, stepping off his dais. He walked to the center of the Circle and faced her, his robe swirling about him.

  “Those who favor Monralar to lead the caste, stand,” the Sural called out.

  Most in his line of sight stood. Though his face twitched to express the smile he felt, he kept it impassive and did not turn to see which of the rest of the caste were standing. Suralia scanned the room with his eyes, counting.

  “Sixty-one.”

  He almost scowled—who had wavered? Then he caught himself. He had still prevailed!

  When they had all seated themselves again, the Jorann spoke. “Do any challenge his worthiness or ability?”

  He fixed the Sural with a stare. The former ruler of Tolar had no right to challenge here; and he would lose the goodwill of the ruling caste if he even attempted to…

  “I challenge,” said a voice to his right. He turned. The Paran was already standing, his hands free, his face clouded but his eyes clear.