flower from the groundcover, holding it close to his face
and taking a deep breath of its sweet fragrance. “A pity you cannot
smell this. It is quite lovely.”
Her annoyance gave way to curiosity.
“Is that an allegory?” she asked.
“Human senses are quite dull compared
to ours,” he continued, hoping she might make the conceptual leap
from comparing physical senses to other, less obvious,
ones.
A thoughtful look crossed her face.
Then she shivered. It was a brisk autumn morning—which, he
remembered, must seem quite cold to her. He turned to her and
smiled.
“Come, child.” He colored his voice
with paternal affection. “I forget you consider this weather cold.
Take my arm.”
She let him take her hand. He tucked
it into his elbow as they continued down the wandering path.
Focusing on her, he angled toward a gazebo and strolled at a slow
pace as he sorted through the many and varied emotions flowing
through her. Gentle and harmless, with a bit of temper, he thought,
touching around the edges of the buried pain. She tries to hide
this even from herself. He probed into it. Violation and fear
of death wove through a tight ball of anguish. He had never seen
anything like it.
“Had you friends on Earth?” he asked.
“Do you miss them?” Her emotions swirled into a complex mixture of
surprise, longing, and a touch of homesickness. No intimate
feelings rose—she was not entwined with anyone on her home
planet.
She nodded. “Why do you
ask?”
“The Sural would not have you be
unhappy.”
The mention of the Sural sent a
cascade of unsettled emotion through her, attraction warring with
anxiety. The girl clamped down on herself, not even aware of what
she did. He rubbed his chin with his free hand and glanced at her.
The time the Sural had spent with her had a deep effect. If she
were Tolari, she would have long since shared her blanket with
him—but intimacy terrified this child, with a deep and reflexive
terror. He guided her into a gazebo and assisted her to a seat,
taking one opposite her.
She radiated gratitude and stopped
shivering. The gazebo, though open, was warmer.
“I remind you of someone,” he
said.
She smiled and nodded. “Gramps,” she
replied. “My grandfather—my mother’s father. He worked as an…
account-keeper—very bookish, like you.”
Storaas returned the smile. “You are
your mother’s heir, then?”
“I suppose you could say that,” she
answered. “I was an only child.”
“An only child?”
“My parents had no other children,”
she explained. “I was the only one.”
“Ah, I see. A human two-parent
family.”
“Yes, exactly.”
“Why then did they not have two
children,” he asked, “to give themselves an heir for
each?”
She pulled her smile sideways. “We
don’t think of it that way. Humans just have children—however many
they decide to have. Some people don’t have any, other people have
a lot, or any number in between. It’s up to them.”
“How peculiar. Should Kyza pass her
trials and become the Sural’s heir, he will not have another
child.”
Marianne laughed. “How would you know
how many children he’ll have?”
“It is our law. He can have but one
heir.”
She sobered. “Truly? What happens if
she dies before he does?”
“He would be permitted another child.
It is not only his right, but also his duty. Suralia must
continue.”
“What about you, do you have an
heir?”
He fell silent for a moment. “No,” he
replied, focusing on her. “And I am too old for that now,” he
added. “Do you plan no child for yourself?”
“No.” Her response snapped out almost
before he finished speaking. As if she realized she’d revealed
something of her anxiety by her quick answer, her expression turned
rueful. “I’m in the ‘some people who don’t have any’
category.”
“You are young,” he said. “You may
change your mind.”
Her voice went flat. “No I won’t. And
anyway, by the time I leave Tolar, I’ll
and taking a deep breath of its sweet fragrance. “A pity you cannot
smell this. It is quite lovely.”
Her annoyance gave way to curiosity.
“Is that an allegory?” she asked.
“Human senses are quite dull compared
to ours,” he continued, hoping she might make the conceptual leap
from comparing physical senses to other, less obvious,
ones.
A thoughtful look crossed her face.
Then she shivered. It was a brisk autumn morning—which, he
remembered, must seem quite cold to her. He turned to her and
smiled.
“Come, child.” He colored his voice
with paternal affection. “I forget you consider this weather cold.
Take my arm.”
She let him take her hand. He tucked
it into his elbow as they continued down the wandering path.
Focusing on her, he angled toward a gazebo and strolled at a slow
pace as he sorted through the many and varied emotions flowing
through her. Gentle and harmless, with a bit of temper, he thought,
touching around the edges of the buried pain. She tries to hide
this even from herself. He probed into it. Violation and fear
of death wove through a tight ball of anguish. He had never seen
anything like it.
“Had you friends on Earth?” he asked.
“Do you miss them?” Her emotions swirled into a complex mixture of
surprise, longing, and a touch of homesickness. No intimate
feelings rose—she was not entwined with anyone on her home
planet.
She nodded. “Why do you
ask?”
“The Sural would not have you be
unhappy.”
The mention of the Sural sent a
cascade of unsettled emotion through her, attraction warring with
anxiety. The girl clamped down on herself, not even aware of what
she did. He rubbed his chin with his free hand and glanced at her.
The time the Sural had spent with her had a deep effect. If she
were Tolari, she would have long since shared her blanket with
him—but intimacy terrified this child, with a deep and reflexive
terror. He guided her into a gazebo and assisted her to a seat,
taking one opposite her.
She radiated gratitude and stopped
shivering. The gazebo, though open, was warmer.
“I remind you of someone,” he
said.
She smiled and nodded. “Gramps,” she
replied. “My grandfather—my mother’s father. He worked as an…
account-keeper—very bookish, like you.”
Storaas returned the smile. “You are
your mother’s heir, then?”
“I suppose you could say that,” she
answered. “I was an only child.”
“An only child?”
“My parents had no other children,”
she explained. “I was the only one.”
“Ah, I see. A human two-parent
family.”
“Yes, exactly.”
“Why then did they not have two
children,” he asked, “to give themselves an heir for
each?”
She pulled her smile sideways. “We
don’t think of it that way. Humans just have children—however many
they decide to have. Some people don’t have any, other people have
a lot, or any number in between. It’s up to them.”
“How peculiar. Should Kyza pass her
trials and become the Sural’s heir, he will not have another
child.”
Marianne laughed. “How would you know
how many children he’ll have?”
“It is our law. He can have but one
heir.”
She sobered. “Truly? What happens if
she dies before he does?”
“He would be permitted another child.
It is not only his right, but also his duty. Suralia must
continue.”
“What about you, do you have an
heir?”
He fell silent for a moment. “No,” he
replied, focusing on her. “And I am too old for that now,” he
added. “Do you plan no child for yourself?”
“No.” Her response snapped out almost
before he finished speaking. As if she realized she’d revealed
something of her anxiety by her quick answer, her expression turned
rueful. “I’m in the ‘some people who don’t have any’
category.”
“You are young,” he said. “You may
change your mind.”
Her voice went flat. “No I won’t. And
anyway, by the time I leave Tolar, I’ll
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