and a plate piled high with shaped sandwiches.
“Will it please my pilot to sit by the window and break her fast?”
His deep voice was grave, though she knew him well enough to hear it for irony.
She tipped her head. “What if it does not please me?”
He settled the tray on the cushion and looked over his shoulder at her, one strong dark brow quirking.
“Why then, I will only say that there are messages here requiring your attention.”
“Messages . . . ” She came forward to sit on the edge of the other cushion, her eyes on the tray. A message pad leaned against the teapot, its surface opaque. With her hand half extended, she hesitated. Who, after all, would send her a message? What if Ran Eld—
“Pilot?” His voice was entirely serious.
Aelliana cleared her throat and looked up into his black eyes.
“Sky nerves,” she said, gratified that her voice was firm. “Nothing more.”
Resolutely, she picked up the message pad and put her thumb against the plate.
The surface lightened, revealing a list of names: Jon dea'Cort, Clonak ter'Meulen, Sinit Caylon, Trilla sen'Elba, Qiarta tel'Ozan.
Sinit Caylon. Aelliana touched her sister's name and put the screen on her knee.
“Pilot.”
So soft it might have been her own thought. She barely glanced up, taking the cup from his hand with a murmured, “My thanks.”
“Aelliana,” Sinit's voice was quivering and high with strain, entirely unlike her usual brash and sunny mode. “Sister, I hope—with all my heart I hope—that this message finds you well. If I'd known, please believe that I would have let you out—I would! Don't think badly of me, Aelliana. I—you can come home, whenever you like. Ran Eld has been cast out, and he won't strike you anymore. I think—I think it's—wonderful, exciting that you fly with Daav yos'Phelium. He has your ring, the one that Ran Eld took—Delm Korval, I mean. He told mother that he'd give it to you . . . ” There was a pause, and the suggestion of a sniffle, then, “I love you, Aelliana.”
She tapped the screen again, pausing it, and swallowed hard in a throat gone tight. For Sinit to think of stopping Ran Eld—it horrified one who knew all too intimately what pain their brother took pleasure in inflicting upon those who thwarted him. Aelliana shivered, raised her cup and sipped tea.
Ran Eld is cast out, and beyond harming Sinit. She formed the thought with care. It scarce seemed believable, yet surely Daav was not mistaken.
Somewhat less unsettled, she looked again to the device in her hand and tapped the first name on the list—Jon dea'Cort.
“Good day to you, math teacher, and hoping this finds you well. I have your ship keys safe, and will hold them, per your instructions, until you or your rogue of a copilot claim them. Rest easy on that score, and come back to us, when you're able.”
She bit into her sandwich, tasting mint and vehna fish, while the message pad cycled down to the next name.
“Goddess, you will not again refuse my escort, if I must follow three steps behind you the whole way into peril.” Clonak's voice was almost stern. “I'm quite aware that I am ridiculous, but believe me sincere in my regard for yourself. If you have any need, call on me.”
There was muted chatter while the pad sorted over Sinit's message, and found the next unread message—from Trilla. Aelliana sipped tea and had another bite . . .
“The master will have called and told you; just thought I'd add my well-wishes—and Patch's. Come back when you're able, Pilot, and we'll dance in earnest.”
Another sip emptied the cup. She sat holding it while the last message played out.
“Scholar Caylon, it is Qiarta tel'Ozan, the least of your students.” Unlike the others, Qiarta spoke in the High Tongue, in the mode between student and honored instructor. “I have seen the news, Scholar. I would be honored to serve you, in whatever fashion that you may require. Please do not hesitate to call upon me, at any hour.”
Tears pricked. Aelliana closed her eyes.
“Tea, Pilot?” a respectful voice inquired.
She opened her eyes and looked down slightly, into Daav's lean, clever face, a novel view. Her fingers twitched as though she would reach out and touch his cheek, which would, she told herself, take wrongful advantage of him—and perhaps dismay the Healers, her kind hosts.
Even seated as he was, cross-legged on the pale blue rug, Daav was tall enough to reach the tray. As if to prove it, he hefted the teapot, quirked an eyebrow and glanced down. Following his glance, she saw the cup cradled in her hands, and held it up, whereupon he poured.
“There are sandwiches left, if you'd like another one or two,” he commented, pouring for himself before setting the pot back onto the tray.
“Another!” she exclaimed, looking once more to the tea tray. In fact, the sandwich plate was empty, save for precisely two, cut into the shapes of a crescent moon and a star.
“Did I—I never ate all of those!” she exclaimed, remembering the pleasant tastes of mint and vehna. “Did I?”
“I accounted for three or four,” Daav said calmly, raising his cup to sip. “Yesterday's lunch was quite some time gone.”
She sipped her tea and considered the remaining sandwiches.
