The Fall (12 page)

She nodded. The door to the hall opened, letting in a gust of warm air, and closed behind him.

Her tablet chimed. Marianne, with tired, puffy eyes and disheveled hair, appeared when she touched the blinking communications sigil.

“Isn’t it the middle of the night where you are?” Laura asked.

“Tell that to Rose.” On cue, a loud, happy chirp sounded in the background. A male voice hummed. “Do you have any advice for getting babies to sleep at night?”

A sympathetic chuckle bubbled to her lips. “Mine responded well to being walked around in a dark room.”

“That’s what the Sural is doing now.”

“Don’t your Suralian apothecaries have any advice?”

“None of it works.”

“You poor thing. She’ll come around eventually. Until then, maybe you should adopt her schedule, instead of trying to get her to adopt yours.”

“Thanks a lot.”

Laura tried not to laugh, but failed. “Well, maybe you’ll feel better when it happens to me.”

Marianne’s eyes popped wide. “What? Laura! Congratulations! You didn’t waste any time, did you?”

“The apothecaries said the baby implanted in a very short amount of time. Short enough for the double dose of pregnancy hormones to interfere with the bonding hormones.”

“So the two conditions interfered with each other?”

“Did they ever.” Laura flushed. “We fell asleep before it was over, so we came out of seclusion, and, well... The guards won’t try to get between a ruler and his bond-partner. It’s too dangerous.”

“Oh no! You didn’t!” Marianne snorted with laughter.

“We did.” Her face flamed. “In the main corridor, near the audience room. The Paran wasn’t even embarrassed afterwards, when the bonding hormones died away for real. I feel like a cheap wanton.”

“Oh Laura, you have to believe you couldn’t help it. There’s a reason bonding couples are supposed to stay in seclusion.”

“That’s what the Paran said, more or less.”

“Then believe him if you won’t believe me.”

“Didn’t you have surgery after you started bonding? I don’t recall hearing any stories of the two of you bonding in the hallway.”

“The first half day or so you can control it. More or less.
Guide the process
was the phrase the Sural used at the time. But he’s... unusual. Even then, it was a near thing. We almost started in Cena’s quarters after the surgery. She was very annoyed.”

“I imagine she was.”

“So. You’re going to have a Tolari heir.”

“Even though I already have five heirs, by their lights.”

Her friend chuckled. “Large families really seem to baffle them.” She paused and glanced up. “He got her to sleep,” she whispered. “I’m going to try to get a little myself. Congratulations! Joy of the bond!”

“Good luck!” The tablet went blank.

A large drop of water rolled down the outside of the window.
Sitting here doesn’t accomplish anything, Laura
. She’d done enough sketch studies; time to get to work on the gift to the stone sculptor’s family. She heaved herself up from the chair and headed for the family library. It felt empty, with little Veryth gone—he was far too young to be apart from his mother, and had accompanied her—but it was less lonely than her quarters and less busy than the guest wing common room. Kellandin loitered among the books, doing his own research, while she outlined a portrait of the old sculptor at an easel near the window. The Paran dropped in now and again, through the afternoon. Sometimes she didn’t notice he had been there until after he left, his amusement bubbling through their bond.

By late afternoon, her feet ached enough to get her attention, and she minced her way across the room to where Kellandin huddled over several stacks of books, writing in a small notebook similar to the one the Paran used to write poetry.

A sense of foreboding whispered across her nerves. She halted, looking around, extending her senses. A disturbance erupted in one end of the stronghold, followed by guards clamping down on their emotional reactions in waves. She pulled out her tablet with a frown. No notification.

Just as she reached the table, a blast of grief seared her heart. Her knees buckled, and she landed in a chair with a whump. The tablet in her hand clattered onto the floor.

“Artist!” Kellandin’s presence flared with alarm. “Shall I summon an apothecary?”

More agony sliced through her.

“No!” she cried. “The Paran!” She bolted out of the chair, racing for the Paran’s open study, pushing the pain in her feet from her mind, begrudging every meter of the distance between the family wing and the Paran’s study off the audience room. A stitch grew in her side. Grimly, she clenched her teeth and ran on, wishing she had Marianne’s training as a marathon runner. She couldn’t cover the ground half fast enough.

Her heart plunged through the floor as she skidded through the door to the study. The Paran stood bent over his desk with his hands splayed flat on its polished wood, his head bowed so far down that his chin touched his chest. A woman—a guard—his head guard—stood across the desk from him, and five advisors sat stiff, silent, their faces frozen, the atmosphere thick with shock.

She threw her arms around the Paran, breathing hard, and felt a tiny part of his pain ease. Just a tiny part. “What happened?” she whispered.

He shook his head.

The guard standing at the desk cleared her throat. Laura glanced at her.

“A transport tunnel collapsed,” she said in a low voice. “The Paran’s daughter was mortally wounded. Her son followed her into the dark when she succumbed to her injuries.”

Raw grief sliced through her at the words—her own or the Paran’s, she couldn’t tell. Something in her that remained cold and rational told her it was probably both. Eyes stinging, she took a deep breath and tried to calm herself. It wouldn’t help the Paran if she became caught up in her own feelings.

“I’m so sorry, beloved,” she murmured. “I’m so, so sorry.”

The advisors began to get up from their chairs to file out the door. Whatever they had been discussing, it wouldn’t be finished today. The guard bowed low and turned to leave.

“Guard.” The Paran’s voice was almost inaudible, but the guard turned back.

“Yes, high one?”

The Paran lifted his face. Dry-eyed, he seemed to stare right through the woman facing him, and when he spoke again, his voice was dark. “Investigate this—accident. I want to know why and how a transport tunnel could collapse.”

“Yes, high one.”

“And contact the city leaders. Five days of mourning. On the fourth day, the sending.”

The guard waited a few moments, then bowed again and left. The Paran pushed away from his desk. “I will be in the arena.”

* * *

Sharana clamped her jaw. “
Murderer!
” she hissed through her teeth.

The Monral sent the guards out of her quarters with a gesture and a look of warning. “Have a care, Sharana.”

“The Paran’s heir parented a first-bond child!
You murdered a child!
” She would have given a great deal to see him flinch, but he did not. Narrowing her eyes, she thrust at him with an empathic probe. “You knew. You
knew
.”

He glared at her for the intrusion. “I could not be certain.”

“Is that what you tell yourself to justify your actions?”

“It is the truth!”

“You cannot lie to me. Not to
me
.”

The Monral winced at her fury. “Beloved—”

“Do
not
call me that.” Ice took root in her heart. She saw realization dawn in the Monral’s eyes as he sensed the cold.

Shock softened his tone. “What would you have me do?”

“Admit your crime to your caste.”

His eyes narrowed. “They would demand my death. Do you wish to die? You are too sensitive to survive it if I walked into the dark.”

She spun to turn her back on him and hugged herself.
Is that what I wish?
She sucked in a breath. It might be better than being trapped in a pair-bond with a murderer.

“What do you intend to do?” he asked.

“I will keep silent,” she said, unable to keep the quiver from her voice. She needed time to think. “For now.”

His hand touched her shoulder.

She whirled on him and took a step back. “Do
not
touch me!” Her voice rose almost to a scream. “
Get out!
”

“Sharana—”

“
Guards!
” She swept past the Monral and into the corridor. “The Monral is no longer welcome in my quarters,” she told the guards who came running. “Escort him out.”

Hurt pierced her heart. His hurt.

“Sharana—”

Two guards entered her sitting room and approached the Monral. “High one,” one of them said, bowing and gesturing toward the door. “Forgive us, but you must leave.”

* * *

Laura wandered down to the arena in the stronghold basement when the Paran didn’t come up for the evening meal. The agony of grief she felt in him had settled into a steady thrum. As she descended the stairs and came into range, his exhaustion and physical pain washed through her.

The head guard met her at the bottom of the steps, face pinched with her own grief, black eyes liquid with concern. “Artist, you must stay back. He is dangerous.”

Laura’s gaze went to the Paran, who was attacking a padded training pell, one of many arranged in a circle around him in a sandy-floored sparring area. A pile of destroyed pells lay in the corner. He flew at the one before him with savage ferocity. The padding began to fly off in chunks.

“He won’t hurt me,” she said.

“Artist—”

“He won’t hurt me.”

The guard took a breath as if to protest once more, but let it out and stepped aside. Laura went past her, into the sparring area the Paran occupied. He continued to batter the pell in front him while she stood beside the next one, waiting.

The last of the padding fell apart. The Paran turned to the one she stood near and stopped, his brows squeezed together. She held her ground, chin lifted, arms crossed. He was disheveled, robe soaked with sweat and covered with bits of padding, his hands and peds raw and bleeding. He shook his head as if coming out of a trance and blinked at her.

She closed the space between them. “Beloved,” she said, her voice soft.

His arms went around her, shaking, holding her too tight. She sensed rather than saw his eyes filling from the haze of grief and physical pain. “My daughter—” he said, his voice breaking.

“I know,” she whispered. “I’m so sorry.” She shifted in his grip to lessen the discomfort of his too-tight hold on her, while he fell into deep, wracking sobs.

Relief shot around the room, and tension eased among the guards. Her own mind fogged with the haze of pain radiating from him, so when he loosened his grip after several minutes and she could take a deep breath, she sagged.

“Forgive me, beloved,” he said, his voice hoarse and his tone bleak. He straightened a little and looked down at her. “I hurt you.”

She reached up to brush the tears from his face. “No. You only made it... a challenge to breathe.”

He wiped at his face with one hand. She caught the hand and examined it.

“You made a mess of this.” She nodded at a nearby guard. “
His healer
,” she said in Paranian. She hoped.

The man bowed and disappeared.

“Come on,” she said, pulling the Paran down by the arm onto the sand-covered floor of the sparring area. “Sit.”

“Beloved—”

“Don’t argue with me.” She tugged again. He landed beside her in the sand, his hands and peds bright shards of pain. “If you’re not going to eat, and I know you’re not, then you’re going to take a break from destroying your guards’ training equipment. Along with your hands and peds.”

“Did no one teach you the deference due a Tolari ruler?” he muttered in a dark voice.

“I’m not Tolari, so no, no one did.”

A spark of amusement lightened his mood, and he wrapped his arms around her. Then, a moment later, his face darkened again. He swallowed. “I must hurt you as a result of this.”

She knitted her eyebrows. “I don’t understand.”

“A pair-bonded ruler without an heir is vulnerable. I must engender another heir, quickly, and I know how the Marann felt about the mere possibility of the Sural’s activity in that regard. It will hurt you, will it not?”

“Oh.” A hammer slammed into the pit of her stomach.
Yes. Yes it would.
She gulped for air. “Do what you have to do.”

Meilyn’s arrival interrupted them. The apothecary lowered himself onto the sand beside the Paran and caught the nearest hand, examining it with a frown. Digging a scanner out of his pockets, he ran it over the Paran from head to ped, muttering in Paranian. The Paran snapped back, his voice sharp with irritation.

“What’s he saying?” Laura asked.

“He scolds me for the damage I did to myself,” the Paran replied.

Someone has to
. She didn’t say it, allowing the healer to take the raw edge of his temper. Meilyn called out an order and pulled one of the Paran’s peds into his lap, peeling the ruined and bloody slipper from it. Laura watched, fascinated, while Meilyn kept the Paran’s attention on his ped and probed him at the same time without attracting notice. A grudging admiration for the masterful display of skill began to mitigate her distaste for the man.

“We aren’t—I mean, humans aren’t able to heal injuries so easily,” she said, to aid in the distraction.

“We were not advanced enough to save Vondra.” The Paran’s shoulders slumped. She winced at the sharp stab of his grief.

The apothecary gave him a sharp glance and said something soft.

The Paran coughed a laugh. “Now he tells me I must allow you to comfort me.”

“Is that such a terrible thing?”

He expelled a sigh and leaned his head against hers. His mood shifted to something gentler. “Perhaps not.”

Another yellow-robed man joined them, carrying a basin of steaming water. An aide, she thought, but she wasn’t sure. With his assistance, Meilyn set about washing the ped in his lap. The Paran didn’t wince, but her own feet squirmed in sympathy. She could sense it hurt. A lot.

“I’m here,” she murmured. “I’m not going anywhere.”