your age to manage a palace with a staff of many hundreds. You will have time to adjust.'
'Adjust.' Vyrl felt as if he were caught in a nightmare that kept going. He would never wake up.
She spoke carefully. 'It is true that Majda has certain expectations for your behavior. But this isn't the Ruby Empire. Those days are long in our past. I don't expect you to stay in seclusion or cover yourself in robes. You are free to pursue your interests.'
If that was meant to reassure him, it had the opposite effect. 'What do you mean, expectations for my behavior?'
'You will be a highly placed member of the Imperial Court. Certain protocols are required.'
Vyrl finished his wine with a long swallow, trying to wash away the bitter images. Yes, he knew court protocol. He couldn't imagine living that constrained lifestyle, always under scrutiny by the noble Houses, caught in their webs of intrigue. And regardless of what Devon promised about modern-day freedoms, he knew he would be viewed and treated as her possession.
He stared at his empty goblet. Then he lifted it and let the glass drop. It shattered on the tiles, blue crystal shards scattering everywhere. 'That is what you will do to me if you make me leave here.'
When Devon stiffened, he feared he had gone too far and destroyed the long hours of conciliation his parents had spent, repairing the rift he had created. What was wrong with him? He had nothing to accomplish by antagonizing the person he would spend the rest of his life with. But if this was any sample of their future, he didn't see how he could bear it.
Devon stared at the broken glass strewn across the floor. Then she braced her hands against her knees. 'I can't do this. I feel like a monster.'
She turned to him. 'The betrothal.'
It was his turn to go rigid. Surely he misunderstood, his heart hearing what his brain knew was false. 'What do you mean?'
She took a long breath. 'I can't force a child to become my consort against his will.' Although she watched him with a guarded expression, there was no mistaking the pain that came from her mind. 'If you choose to end this arrangement, I will accept your decision without rancor to your family.'
Vyrl's heart lurched. 'You mean, I could stay married to Lily?'
Devon exhaled. 'Yes.'
Devon continued in her throaty voice. 'But, Vyrl — before you decide, consider this: If you choose to stay here, you will never realize your dreams.'
His joy crashed down again. He told himself it was only his fear that she would withdraw her offer. That was true — in part. But he longed for the freedom to dance, to perform, to explore the limits of his ability, and to do it without shame or guilt, admired instead of scorned.
The dream tempted him like a siren call.
A small cleaning droid whirred through the doorway. It nosed around the shards of glass, then began to vacuum them into its interior.
'I've seen holos of your dancing,' Devon said.
Vyrl froze. 'Who showed you?'
'Your teacher. Rahkil Mariov.'
He wanted to sink into the floor and let the droid vacuum him up, too. 'I hope it didn't offend you.'
'Offend me?' Incredulity washed across her face. 'You really have no idea how you look, do you?'
'Yes, I do. I work out facing the mirror.' It showed every mistake, again and again, until he fixed the problem.
She spoke slowly. 'I have often wondered what it does to a person to stare for hours into a mirror for the sole purpose of finding flaws. Your dancing seems a cruel art.'
'But it isn't.' He didn't know how to describe what was intuition for him. 'It can be frustrating, but when you see improvement, it's magic.'
'Magic, yes.' For the first time since she had entered the room, her face warmed with a smile. 'When you dance, it is extraordinary. Mesmerizing. With your gifts and your spectacular looks, you could have an empire at your feet.' In her throaty, compelling voice, she added, 'I can give that to you.'
Vyrl stared at her, unable to respond. He could barely imagine people tolerating his dancing, yet Devon promised him an empire. Of all the inducements Majda could have offered, she had chosen the single one that made a difference.
Devon stood up. 'I'll wait downstairs. Take as long as you need to decide.'
After she left, Vyrl pulled up his knee, rested his elbow on it, and gazed out at the rippling plains. Today his tower chamber offered no serenity. He could have what he wanted — Lily and a farm — but it would weaken crucial alliances built on the expectation of his marriage to Devon. Nor could he perform. If he accepted the marriage, he would lose Lily and Lyshriol, but he wouldn't have to give up farming completely, and he could have the dance career he craved, one almost beyond his imaginings.
The droid whirred around his feet, cleaning up the last shards, hiding the broken pieces inside itself. Once again, the chamber was spotless and smooth, like a polished box.
A tear gathered in Vyrl's eye and slid down his cheek. He knew the decision he had to make. He went to the door and descended the stairs, headed toward Majda.
Maybe he could never escape the pain — but he could hide it inside.
6. Dreams
Vyrl tried the combination of steps again, studying his technique in the mirror as he skimmed across the floor. His reflection showed a young man with long legs and red-gold curls, in black pants and a black pullover, all soaked with sweat. Frowning, he tried the steps yet another time. Pah, No wonder he kept stumbling on the last jump. He was leaning to the side, almost imperceptibly, but enough to throw off his balance.
'Are you going to glare at yourself all day?' a voice drawled from the doorway.
Vyrl refocused on the mirror, looking at the reflection of the doorway. His brother Del-Kurj stood there, resting his lanky self against the frame, his arms crossed. Vyrl glowered at him via the mirror, but he decided to be civil. For all that Del-Kurj could be a bog-boil, he had been remarkably decent lately, even showing sympathy for his younger brother's melancholy.
Vyrl turned to him. 'Has the broadcast started yet?'
Del nodded. 'In the Hearth Room.'
Vyrl felt as if a lump was lodged in his throat. The meditative calm of his dancing vanished. He cleaned up and changed into trousers and a white shirt, then followed Del upstairs.
His siblings were already gathered around the hearth: Althor in an armchair, his large size and self- assurance dominating the room; Chaniece, fraternal twin to Del-Kurj, poised and regal, gold hair spilling over her arms; thirteen-year-old Soz, with wild, dark curls, busily taking apart Althor's laser carbine, trying to figure out how it worked; twelve-year-old Denric, smaller than his brothers, with a mop of yellow curls and violet eyes; eight- year-old Aniece, also dark-haired, small and pretty, curled on a sofa by their mother; and four-year-old Kelric, a strapping toddler with gold curls, gold eyes, and the kind of heartbreakingly angelic face that only beautiful young children could have. Their father was sitting in a large armchair, his booted legs stretched across the carpet. Only ten-year-old Shannon was missing.
Seeing his family together, knowing this would soon all change for him, Vyrl wanted to hold this moment close, like a treasure within a box. He would miss them more than he knew how to say.
Del-Kurj dropped onto the sofa next to Chaniece and sprawled out his long legs. On the other couch, Soz eyed Vyrl dubiously, as if she hadn't decided yet whether or not brothers qualified as human. But then she moved over, making room for him.
Vyrl sat down, with Soz on one side and Althor on the other. As he settled in, the room lights dimmed.
