The antique silver puzzle ring that was her death-gift from her grandmother was still on her finger. But the other—her gift from Jon dea'Cort, the Jump pilot's ring that had for generations been in the care of a binjali pilot—
Aelliana spun back to the bed. She shook her tattered clothing; turning out every pocket. She found a cantra piece in an outside jacket pocket, and the precious piloting license tucked into an inner. But of the ring, there was no sign. Snatching the lid off the box—she froze, assaulted by the scent of leather, and stared down at the jacket folded neatly within.
A Jump pilot's jacket, its supple black finish as yet unmarred by such small adventures as might befall a pilot on a strange port.
It looked as if it might fit her.
Hands shaking, she set it aside, for there were other things in the box: a plain white shirt; a high-necked black sweater; a pair of tough trousers in dark blue, and another, in dusky green; underthings—everything, to look at it, near or at her size. She put it all aside, lifted the pretty paper lining the bottom of the box—but Jon's ring was not there.
Ran Eld! she thought. It had caught his eye, and easy enough to have it off her hand, once she was unconscious.
“He will not have it!” she snapped, and turned back to the window.
Overlooking the flowers, she tried to make a plan.
It seemed she would be returning to Mizel's clanhouse again, after all.
* * *
The doorkeeper showed him to a private parlor, served him wine and left him alone, murmuring that the Master would be with him soon.
The wine was sweet and sat ill on a stomach roiled with fear. He put it aside after a single sip and paced the length of the room, unable to sit decently and await his host.
Behind him, the door opened, and he spun, too quickly. Master Healer Kestra paused on the threshold and showed her hands, palms up and empty, eyebrows lifted ironically.
Ignoring irony, Daav bowed greeting, counting time as he had not done since he was a halfling, throttling pilot speed down to normality, though his nerves screamed for haste.
The Healer returned his bow with an inclination of her head and walked over to the clustered chairs. She arranged herself comfortably in one and looked up at him, face neutral.
“Well, Korval.”
He drifted a few paces forward. “Truly, Master Kestra?”
She waved impatiently at the chair opposite her. “I will not be stalked, sir! Sit, sit! And be still, for love of the gods! You're loud enough to give an old woman a headache—and to no purpose. She's fine.”
His knees gave way and, perforce, he sat. “Fine.”
“Oh, a little burn—nothing worrisome, I assure you! For the most part, the Learner never touched her. She knew her danger quickly and crafted her protection well. She created herself an obsession: an entire star system, which required her constant and total concentration—I should say, calculation!—to remain viable.”
She smiled, fondly, so it seemed to Daav. “Brilliant! The Learning Module will not disturb rational cognition.”
She moved her shoulders. “Tom Sen and I removed the obsession, and placed the sleep upon her. We did not consider, under the circumstances, that it was wise to entirely erase painful memory, though we did put—say, we caused those memories to feel distant to her. Thus she remains wary, yet unimpeded by immediate fear.” Another ripple of her shoulders. “For the rest, she passed a few moments in the 'doc for the cuts and bruises. I spoke with her not an hour ago and I am well satisfied with our work.”
Daav closed his eyes. She was well. He was trembling, he noted distantly, and his chest burned.
“Korval?”
He cleared his throat, opened his eyes and inclined his head. “Accept my thanks,” he said, voice steady in the formal phrasing.
“Certainly,” Kestra murmured, and paused, the line of a frown between her brows.
“You should be informed,” she said, abruptly, and Daav felt a chill run his spine.
“Informed?” he repeated, when several seconds had passed and the Healer had said no more. “Is she then not—entirely—well, Master Kestra?”
She moved a hand—half-negation. “Of this most recent injury, you need have no further concern. However, there was another matter—a trauma left untended. Scar tissue, you would say.”
“Yes,” he murmured, recalling. “She had said she thought it—too late—to seek a Healer.”
“In some ways, she was correct,” Kestra admitted. “Much of the damage has been integrated into the personality grid. On the whole, good use has been made of a bad start—she's strong, never doubt it. I did what I could, where the scars hindered growth.” She sighed lightly and sat back in her chair.
“The reason I mention the matter to you is that I find—an anomaly—within Scholar Caylon's pattern.”
Daav frowned. “Anomaly?”
The Healer sighed. “Call it a—seed pattern. It's set off in a—oh, a cul-de-sac—by itself and it bears no resemblance whatsoever to the remainder of her pattern. Although I have seen a pattern remarkably like it, elsewhere.”
