“You argue like a trader, beloved,” he said.
Er Thom laughed.
“Do I take that for a promise?” he asked.
Daav sighed. “A promise, yes.”
“Good. Will you wish to have me with you, at Chonselta?”
“I think not. Best for you to stay and play nadelm. I fear there may be some calls today.”
It was Er Thom who sighed then. “I was afraid of that,” he said.
* * *
Inviolate, she floated, at ease among pinpoints of memory. Her course was meandering, though some way in her control. If she focused on that point, there, why then, she would draw close enough to observe something like a playlet, save she knew the characters intimately.
Here was Ran Eld, his face twisted in anger, blood from the blow she had dealt him marring his cheek.
There were Frad and Clonak, urging her to accept an escort, rather than go home, to her delm, alone.
There again was the noisy table, the comfort of familiar faces, the weight of the first class license in her hand.
Here was Daav, his slim body warm as they danced—and Daav again, shoulders slumped, walking away from her in the dawnlight.
Each playlet she observed lent her weight, so that by the time she had reacquainted herself with the events of the past day, she was aware that she lay upon a mattress, blankets pinning her gently.
Aelliana opened her eyes.
The woman seated next to her bed was neither expected nor unexpected. Short, hull-grey hair waved back from a face softened by wrinkles. Her eyes were also grey, and not soft at all.
“Good morning,” she said ironically, as if the commonplace were a joke. “How do you find yourself this day?”
Another commonplace, yet it seemed that this woman actually wished to hear the answer to her question. Aelliana considered. Doubtless, she had been bruised in the tussle with Ran Eld. She also remembered, as if it had happened some very long time ago, and to someone else, that she had been . . . ill. There had been—she had been too unsteady to walk, had fallen . . . several times. Then the taxi and the pilots at the Guild Hall . . .
“I find myself . . . at peace,” Aelliana said slowly, “and less wounded than I believe I had been.”
“Excellent on both counts. Peace is a gift of the house. I urge you to treasure it, for it will, I fear, too soon fade. As for the hurts that you recall—the autodoc made quick work of them.”
Another memory rose, distant still, but with the power to alarm.
“My brother—the Learning Module . . . ”
“Yes, exactly so,” the woman interrupted briskly. She extended a hand and touched Aelliana's forehead. Warmth flowed from her fingertips, dissolving distress, introducing a pleasant languor . . .
“Of your kindness, I would keep you thus a short while longer. No harm will come to you—I, Kestra, Master of the Healing Art, attest this. It is merely that the examination I must now perform is best done in . . . peace.”
“I . . . am at Healer Hall?” The warmth filled her head, flowed down her neck, her back, her arms.
“Healer Hall. Just so.”
“But . . . ” Aelliana snatched at her flagging will, and focused on the other woman's face. “Am I— damaged?”
“That is what I wish to determine, child. Now, rest, and let me in.”
* * *
Aided by a Scout meditation technique, he slept for precisely two hours: dreamless, revitalizing sleep, from which he rose as fresh as if from a long and comfortable night. He showered, dressing in simple white shirt and tough trousers, with his pilot's jacket over all—a compromise between protocol and necessity. Aelliana knew him best in leathers, which simply would not do for this; nor would he discomfort her by appearing in delm's finery.
“Though she must straightaway know you for Korval,” he scolded himself as he snatched his hair into a tail and snapped a ring 'round the thick, dark stuff to hold it tame. He looked at himself in the mirror, seeing sober eyes and a face tight with dread. “If she is able.”
Brain-burn was a serious matter. To be subjected to the direct attention of a Learning Module at full intensity for five hours—she could not have escaped injury. How dire were her wounds, and in what manner they altered the Aelliana he knew . . .
His reflection blurred into a smear of black and gold and silver.
“Take your Jumps in order, Pilot,” he whispered, blinking his vision clear. “First, to Chonselta, and the gathering of such facts as the Healers may feel inclined to impart.”
He touched his pockets, making certain of such necessities as license, key, and cantra, before leaving the room.
In the lower hall, his cloak was still over the chair where he had thrown it, and where orange-and-white Relchin had found it and made it into a nest. The cat looked up and yawned as the man approached.
Daav sighed. “It's rare one beholds a creature so comfortable,” he said resignedly. “However, there is a thing which belongs to Pilot Caylon in the pocket. Believe me, I would disturb you for nothing less.”
