There was a pause before Er Thom said, “Of course,” and sighed.
“You should know that Anne had told him that we had bad news from the port, and that his mother . . . would not be returning.” He shot Daav a sidewise glance.
“Val Con refused to believe Anne's information,” Daav said slowly, “and may have . . . lost his temper, just a little.”
“Mrs. Intassi reports a display of epic proportion,” Er Thom agreed. “She said that she was reminded vividly of yourself.”
Daav said nothing, and they walked down the hall in silence, turning the corner into the family wing.
“Here,” Er Thom said.
They had given him Sae Zar's old apartment; he recalled coming here once or twice as a child, with Er Thom. It was a gentle choice: on the family wing, yet removed enough from Anne and Er Thom's suite that he could be private in his comings and goings.
Daav put his hand against the plate, sighing as the house recognized him, and opened the door.
“Good evening, Brother,” he murmured and took one step forward.
“Daav.”
Nerves grating, the longing for solitude a thirst, yet he turned back to face his brother.
“Do you want me to stay with you?” Er Thom asked. He reached out to stroke Daav's cheek, a gesture that moved them both to tears. “Daav? I—I fear for you, alone.”
I fear for me, alone, as well, Daav thought, even as he shook his head.
“I swear that I will do nothing . . . irrecoverable tonight,” he said, and felt that, perhaps, he would be able to honor that oath. “And you—denubia, you are as exhausted as I am—more!—for it fell to you to do all that had to be done, for—for her, and for me. I—” He leaned forward and kissed Er Thom on his damp cheek.
“Go to your lifemate, darling. I—I will come to you tomorrow, and be as seemly as may be.”
Er Thom bit his lip. “I cannot imagine,” he said, his voice so low that Daav could scarcely hear him. “Beloved, I—” He moved, pilot fast; his embrace swift and fierce.
“Do as you must,” he whispered. “I love you, Daav.”
“I love you, Brother,” he answered, but Er Thom was already walking away, back to his lady, so Daav devoutly hoped, and there to take what rest and comfort that he might.
Deliberately, he stepped across the threshold; closed, and locked, the door.
The suite was much as he recalled it from childhood: agreeable rooms of good size, overlooking the topiary maze. He found his clothes in Sae Zar's closet; the books that had been occupying his attention on the table beside the double chair; his knives and wood pieces—the worktable itself!—set agreeably before the window; the computer in the office niche displaying a secure connection to Jelaza Kazone's network and to his private sub- net.
Restlessness took him to the bedroom, neat and not overly ornate. His brushes and his jewel box were disposed atop the bureau. Idly, for no better reason that he must be doing something or he would surely go mad, he opened the lid of the jewel box.
Green flashed at him, and a gaudy rainbow of jewel tones. Extending a finger, he touched the emerald drop— the very one she had been wearing when they—his mind veered, and for a long, long moment he wavered on the edge of the abyss.
I can, he thought, feeling the coldness in his own mind, control this. I have a choice—Master Kestra said as much, did she not?—I do not have to fall into a seizure.
I do not have to die.
It came to him, then, the fullness of the choice that he had been given. He did not have to die. Nor did he have to live.
He took a breath . . . another. A third, and he was able to look again into his jewel box, seeing the Jump pilot's cluster gaudily flaunt a ship's ransom, and a humbler sheen, like moonlight seen beside the sun.
He picked it up—the old silver puzzle ring that she had had from her grandmother, as a death-gift. His eyes filled as he raised it and slid it onto the smallest finger of his right hand.
“Aelliana,” he whispered, bending his head as his tears fell more rapidly. “Van'chela, how could you not know that I would have rather died a thousand times in your stead?”
I could not bear to lose you, Daav.
Her voice was so clear, with that wistful tone she adopted when stating something of extreme obviousness. He spun, lips parting for a reply, before he remembered that he would never see, nor hear her again . . .
Horror ripped through him and he saw it all again: her leap, the pellets striking; the stink of blood, the coldness of extinction . . .
He dropped to his knees, unable to stand, put his hands over his face and sobbed; long, wracking sobs torn from the depths of him, until he crumbled facedown on the rug, exhausted; weeping silently now, and, finally, weeping no more.
When he felt he was strong enough to stand, he climbed to his feet, and, grimacing at himself in the mirror, fetched out his robe and strode into the 'fresher, emerging some time later clean, exhausted, and by no means interested in sleep.
He went out into the main room, pausing in the corner kitchen to pour himself a cup of cold water. Kneeling by the table, he sipped while sorting through his books, hoping to find something that might hold his interest.
There was a slight sound, as of a cat scratching at a door unfairly closed against it.
