confused Rayne, and she turned her head so her
cheek was pressed to his. The last thing she remembered was
confronting the telepath in her mind, and this seemed like a
pleasant dream. It had to be a dream, for Tarke held her as if he
would never let her go.
Rayne did not
want him to; he could do it until Hell froze over. She slipped her
arms around him, and he held her away to study her. She smiled, and
he grinned, revealing the even white teeth she had always suspected
him of owning.
“You’re
awake.”
Rayne nodded,
fighting a creeping lethargy that threatened to wash over her. Her
mouth tasted like she imagined a pigsty floor would, and she
struggled to unglue her tongue from the roof of her mouth. She
longed to ask him why he was so friendly, and why she was so weak.
They appeared to be back on board the Crystal Ship. The gentle
brush of the alien’s mind warmed her heart with a rush of joy.
“Scrysssla,”
she whispered, her tongue refusing to enunciate the difficult
name.
Tarke’s grin
broadened. Dozens of questions crowded her mind, but for the moment
her mouth was not working as it should, and she could only gaze at
him in confusion. He answered her thoughts as if she had
spoken.
“We’re on board
the Crystal Ship. It came back. You’ve been in a coma for five
years, that’s why you’re so weak. Scrysalza brought you back. And
I’m really glad you’re awake at last.”
Rayne blinked,
trying to remember what had happened, and how she had lost five
years. Memories rushed back, filling her with dread as she recalled
the doors opening and her fall into emptiness. The telepath’s
scream as he was swept away into the darkness, then the closing of
the blankness like a black fist. She sobbed as her eyes overflowed.
Tarke murmured her name, begging her to stay while the ship’s mind
soothed her with compassion.
Between them,
they held off the darkness, and she had no wish to return there
when she could stay in her husband’s arms. Her aloof, paranoid
husband, who now held her so tenderly. Eventually the tiredness
claimed her, however, and she sank into its dark folds.
Tarke lowered
Rayne onto the moss, sending a concerned question to the ship.
She
sleeps, Scrysalza assured him. She is weak and in need of
much rest now. Her mind will take time to recover, and adjust to
the burdens of wakefulness and thoughts, so you may find her dull
for a while. There is no permanent damage to her mind, and I have
sealed the doors so she cannot slip back again.
Tarke settled
down to wait, watching her sleep.
Rayne woke
again several hours later, and, as the ship had warned him, she was
dull and lethargic, but smiled in a distant, tremulous way. She
drank water from the crystal goblet Scrysalza had grown for him and
ate some of the peculiar food it provided.
Rayne found
Tarke’s attentiveness almost unnerving, and had to remind herself
that this was the same reserved Antian who had frustrated her so.
He hardly spoke, and she wondered at his silence, her questions
multiplying.
Late in the
second day of her recovery, as she lay beside him on the lake
shore, her head pillowed in the crook of his arm, she reached up
and touched the sleek, gleaming black slave collar around his
throat. He looked down at her.
“I’ve been a
fool,” he said. “I thought it was better to keep certain things a
secret, to spare myself the pain of explaining it to you, and you
the horror of hearing it. Now I realise that you have a right to
know everything, no matter how much I dislike talking about it, and
even if it makes you never want to see me again. I won’t blame you
if you do.”
He paused, his
eyes growing distant. “I named myself the Shrike after a small,
fairly vicious flying predator on my world. They had a nasty habit
of impaling their living victims on the thorns of a charab tree and eating them at their leisure. It’s the symbol on my ships,
and it represents the ruthlessness I’ve had to use to
cheek was pressed to his. The last thing she remembered was
confronting the telepath in her mind, and this seemed like a
pleasant dream. It had to be a dream, for Tarke held her as if he
would never let her go.
Rayne did not
want him to; he could do it until Hell froze over. She slipped her
arms around him, and he held her away to study her. She smiled, and
he grinned, revealing the even white teeth she had always suspected
him of owning.
“You’re
awake.”
Rayne nodded,
fighting a creeping lethargy that threatened to wash over her. Her
mouth tasted like she imagined a pigsty floor would, and she
struggled to unglue her tongue from the roof of her mouth. She
longed to ask him why he was so friendly, and why she was so weak.
They appeared to be back on board the Crystal Ship. The gentle
brush of the alien’s mind warmed her heart with a rush of joy.
“Scrysssla,”
she whispered, her tongue refusing to enunciate the difficult
name.
Tarke’s grin
broadened. Dozens of questions crowded her mind, but for the moment
her mouth was not working as it should, and she could only gaze at
him in confusion. He answered her thoughts as if she had
spoken.
“We’re on board
the Crystal Ship. It came back. You’ve been in a coma for five
years, that’s why you’re so weak. Scrysalza brought you back. And
I’m really glad you’re awake at last.”
Rayne blinked,
trying to remember what had happened, and how she had lost five
years. Memories rushed back, filling her with dread as she recalled
the doors opening and her fall into emptiness. The telepath’s
scream as he was swept away into the darkness, then the closing of
the blankness like a black fist. She sobbed as her eyes overflowed.
Tarke murmured her name, begging her to stay while the ship’s mind
soothed her with compassion.
Between them,
they held off the darkness, and she had no wish to return there
when she could stay in her husband’s arms. Her aloof, paranoid
husband, who now held her so tenderly. Eventually the tiredness
claimed her, however, and she sank into its dark folds.
Tarke lowered
Rayne onto the moss, sending a concerned question to the ship.
She
sleeps, Scrysalza assured him. She is weak and in need of
much rest now. Her mind will take time to recover, and adjust to
the burdens of wakefulness and thoughts, so you may find her dull
for a while. There is no permanent damage to her mind, and I have
sealed the doors so she cannot slip back again.
Tarke settled
down to wait, watching her sleep.
Rayne woke
again several hours later, and, as the ship had warned him, she was
dull and lethargic, but smiled in a distant, tremulous way. She
drank water from the crystal goblet Scrysalza had grown for him and
ate some of the peculiar food it provided.
Rayne found
Tarke’s attentiveness almost unnerving, and had to remind herself
that this was the same reserved Antian who had frustrated her so.
He hardly spoke, and she wondered at his silence, her questions
multiplying.
Late in the
second day of her recovery, as she lay beside him on the lake
shore, her head pillowed in the crook of his arm, she reached up
and touched the sleek, gleaming black slave collar around his
throat. He looked down at her.
“I’ve been a
fool,” he said. “I thought it was better to keep certain things a
secret, to spare myself the pain of explaining it to you, and you
the horror of hearing it. Now I realise that you have a right to
know everything, no matter how much I dislike talking about it, and
even if it makes you never want to see me again. I won’t blame you
if you do.”
He paused, his
eyes growing distant. “I named myself the Shrike after a small,
fairly vicious flying predator on my world. They had a nasty habit
of impaling their living victims on the thorns of a charab tree and eating them at their leisure. It’s the symbol on my ships,
and it represents the ruthlessness I’ve had to use to
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